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+{"text":"\n\n## Iain Stewart\n\n* * *\n\n### PLATE TECTONICS\n\n#### with illustrations by  \nRuth Palmer\n\n## Contents\n\nEarth puzzle\n\nVoyages of discovery\n\nGreater glory\n\nThe face of the earth\n\nA man adrift\n\nA man of convection\n\nFrom land to sea\n\nA planetary force field\n\nThe palaeo-magicians\n\nSouthern drifters\n\nMapping the ocean deep\n\nThe geo-poetry of the spreading sea floor\n\nReversals of fortune\n\nThe first touching of a new world\n\nRock, paper, scissors\n\nNew global shocks\n\nSpinning plates\n\nRevolution\n\nPuzzling in continents\n\nA Cinderella tale\n\nA fatal attraction\n\nPlumes and problems\n\nThe view from space\n\nPale blue dot\n\nFurther Reading\n\n## Earth puzzle\n\nOur earth is a puzzle \u2013 the product of a planetary experiment that was run once only and lasted four and a half billion years. Unravelling that succession of worlds which has unfolded until the present would seem to be a task of impossible complexity. For centuries, scientific enquiry had grappled with convoluted ideas to explain the earth's natural features: its continents and oceans, mountains and valleys, volcanoes and earthquakes.\n\nThen, over the course of just a few years in the 1960s \u2013 a geological instant \u2013 it was all over. A small group of geophysicists \u2013 some leaders in the field, many just out of graduate school \u2013 working at a handful of international institutions, formulated the first global theory ever to be generally accepted in the entire history of earth science. Like all grand unifying theories, it would turn out to be deceptively simple.\n\nToday, half a century on, it is hard to imagine thinking about our planet without the lens of plate tectonics. The theory not only sits at the heart of our scientific understanding of how the earth works, it has infiltrated into everyday life. People talk of the 'moving plates' of politics or 'tectonic shifts' in world affairs. But few other than earth scientists appreciate the deep roots and revolutionary currents that led to what would be one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs of the twentieth century.\n\nThis is the story of the science and scientists that made earth history.\n\n## Voyages of discovery\n\nThroughout the sixteenth century, successive waves of Portuguese and Spanish seafarers charted the outer reaches of the known world. These grand voyages of discovery revealed an earth that was more ocean than land, had distinct climate zones and wind patterns, and exhibited a geomagnetic field.\n\nBack home, European map-makers converted these maritime charts into ever more intricate and accurate world views. One, the renowned Flemish geographer Abraham Ortelius, noticed a curious transatlantic twinning. In his _Thesaurus Geographicus_ (1596), he noted that western Europe and Africa seemed to project into the recesses of the American continent. Brazil's eastern bulge seemed to fit snugly into the bight of West Africa, the Sahara's western bulk could rest against North America's eastern shores, and Canada's Nova Scotia and Newfoundland appeared to slot into the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel.\n\nBy the nineteenth century, speculation about the origin of the earth's enigmatic natural features was the pastime of gentleman scientists and scholarly clergymen. Scientific theories were generally thinly veiled biblical thinking, often invoking divine violence. In 1838, the Reverend Thomas Dick, a Scottish minister and philosopher, wrote that the pairing of Atlantic shores 'renders it not altogether impossible that the continents were originally conjoined and that, at some favourable physical revolution or catastrophe, they may have been rent asunder by some tremendous power, when the waters of the ocean rushed in between them and left them separated as we now behold them'.\n\nAbraham Ortelius with a later depiction of his idea.\n\n## Greater glory\n\nMarch 1912: Robert Falcon Scott and his team are returning from their ill-fated attempt to be the first to the South Pole. Blighted by frostbite, snow blindness and malnutrition, and man-hauling 16 kg of rock samples, they still take time to 'geologize' the Transantarctic Mountains. Ultimately, it would cost them their lives. Almost eight months later, when their frozen bodies were found, Scott's rock samples were carefully laid out. He had clearly considered them precious cargo.\n\nScott had been persuaded to collect the rocks by a young English palaeobotanist, Marie Stopes. Later in life she would find fame as a pioneer of women's rights and family planning, but in the early 1900s she was an expert on ferns and seed plants from Carboniferous times, 300 million years ago. Certain that such rocks would be found in Antarctica, she had pleaded with Scott to take her on his expedition. He refused, but promised to bring her back some samples.\n\nWhen analysed back in England, Scott's samples were found to be packed full of fossilized plant debris. Many of the leaves were from a fern-like tree called _Glossopteris_ , indicating that in the Carboniferous age, this icy wasteland had been carpeted with temperate forest. The spores of these trees couldn't be transported great distances but _Glossopteris_ had been found in Carboniferous strata right across the southern hemisphere, from India to South America. All those land masses must once have been welded together, including, now, Antarctica. Scott's rocks had helped to define the southern extent of an extraordinary land mass.\n\n## The face of the earth\n\nEarlier, in the 1850s, the Vienna-based geologist Eduard Suess had discovered an ocean lurking amid the magnificent Austrian Alps. Finding thick piles of ancient sediment identical to that accumulating on the modern sea floor, he proposed that a primeval marine basin the size of the Atlantic had once dominated the heart of Europe. Suess named it Tethys, after the sister and consort of the Greek god of the ocean, Oceanos. Suess's crumpled Alpine peaks were testimony to slow constriction of the Tethys Ocean by the northward advance of a great land mass to the south.\n\nIn his 1904 book _The Face of the Earth_ , a monumental work compiled over two decades, Suess forensically reconstructed the geology of the southern land mass to embrace South America, Africa, India and Australia. Its heart lay in the Gondwana kingdom of north central India, where _Glossopteris_ fern forest had once flourished, and so the vast bulk became Gondwanaland. Opposing it on the northern shores of the Tethys was Angaraland, and as the Tethys Ocean squeezed shut, parts of the two super-continents became welded into the present amalgam of Europe and Asia.\n\nSuess, the towering geological intellect of the day, explained the demise of the Tethys by likening the earth to a drying apple. As it contracted through loss of internal heat, its rocky skin wrinkled, pushing up mountains and sinking ocean basins. Oceans were simply sunken continents. In the death throes of the Tethys, land bridges interconnecting Gondwanaland successively foundered, giving birth to the Atlantic and Indian oceans and leaving the southern continents stranded. Continents were considered to be on the move, but mainly up and down.\n\n## A man adrift\n\nAlfred Wegener was not a geologist. Famed as a world-record-setting balloonist, trained as an astronomer and working on atmospheric physics, the German meteorologist spent much of his time pioneering dangerous scientific expeditions to the polar north. Having lived for months on the shifting fringes of the Greenland ice cap, Wegener was ready to challenge the notion of a static planet.\n\nIn 1912, he combined Suess's grand synthesis with the latest geophysical thinking to make an outrageous proposal: the continents were drifting like ice floes. Over the next decade or so, Wegener showed a continuity of fossils and strata indicating dispersed lands and glacial deposits in regions that are ice-free today. By the time his book _The Origin of Continents and Oceans_ appeared in English in 1924 he had drawn all the continents together 300 million years ago into a single ancestral land mass: Pangaea ('all earth').\n\nIn Britain and America, Wegener's 'continental drift' met with a frigid reception. His claim that Greenland was moving by tens of metres each year was ridiculed by leading physicists. What could possibly propel it at such a pace? For geologists, the problem wasn't so much the driving force, or even the evidence, but the irritation of a German physicist with his head in the clouds intruding rudely into their rocky domain. Held firm by a contracting earth dogma, most geologists found Wegener's idea simply too outlandish to accept. If drift was real, they complained, it would require a revolution in geology. His theory of continental mobility shredded by the scientific establishment, Wegener returned to Greenland and died on the ice in November 1930, searching for proof to the end.\n\n## A man of convection\n\nOn the opposite side of the Atlantic, even as Wegener and his 'drift' were being consigned to the history books, a viable mechanism for moving the continents was being conceived. The discovery of natural radioactivity at the end of the nineteenth century had allowed the planet a new heat source. Earth wasn't steadily cooling and contracting \u2013 it had an internal fuel store of radioactively decaying elements.\n\nIn the early decades of the twentieth century, the English geologist Arthur Holmes used the new knowledge that radioactive atoms shed their energy particles like clockwork to build a timescale of the planet's geological past. But in the late 1920s, he began to realize that the heat of radioactive decay could also power a mighty engine within the earth.\n\nHolmes presented his theory of 'mantle convection' in a talk to the Geological Society of Glasgow in 1928. It appeared in print in 1931, just months after Wegener's death. Ironically, Holmes's account of the heat engine borrowed much from meteorologists' descriptions of the turbulent motions of the atmosphere. Hot rock in the earth's mantle (the bit between the crust and the core) could move as 'a planetary circulation' of 'monsoon-like currents' \u2013 albeit rising and falling only a few centimetres a year \u2013 stoked by simple thermal convection.\n\nArthur Holmes went on to be one of Britain's most influential geologists and his 1944 textbook, _The Principles of Physical Geology_ \u2013 written during long hours on wartime fire-watching duty \u2013 inspired generations of geologists. Its final diagram depicts mantle convection, couched in cautious terms. Holmes might have been converted to drift, but few others had.\n\n## From land to sea\n\nDespite the discovery of a potential mechanism for a mobile earth, most geologists doggedly clung to fixed continents left isolated by sunken land bridges. After all, the ocean floor was conveniently out of sight and largely out of mind.\n\nHalf a century before, in 1872, the HMS _Challenger_ expedition had begun the first scientific study of the world's great oceans. Surveying for the very first network of deep-sea telegraph cables, soundings revealed a huge rise in the middle of the Atlantic. Not an east\u2013west land bridge but a north\u2013south chain of underwater mountains running from the Arctic Sea almost as far as Antarctica: the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.\n\nBy the 1930s, navies' routine use of submarines was ushering in a new age of scientific exploration. In the years leading up to the Second World War, submarine expeditions began to reveal the curious character of the ocean floors. Gravity measurements at sea showed that the ocean was underlain by basalt \u2013 far denser than the granite-rich continents. But still no evidence emerged for drowned land bridges.\n\nThe war itself had a galvanizing effect. Submarines weren't simply an exploration tool, they were a lethal threat. Heavy maritime losses from German U-boat attacks convinced the Allies that better ocean science offered military advantage. An army of geophysicists were enrolled into Allied naval research. Sonar scanned and probed the ocean floor. Marine magnetic studies tested submarine detection. At the end of the war, scientists attracted by magnetic minesweeping and magnetizing ships returned to academic life fascinated by the earth's own magnetic field.\n\n## A planetary force field\n\nThat our planet acts as a giant magnet had been known since 1600, and by the end of the nineteenth century it was clear it had something to do with its rotation. It turns out that the spin of the globe causes liquid iron in the earth's outer core to slosh about, and that motion generates electrical energy which, in turn, induces a local magnetic field within the planet. The result is we live on a homegrown, self-sustaining dynamo.\n\nThe planet's magnetic forces might seem huge but in fact they are hundreds of times weaker than the field between the poles of a toy 'horseshoe' magnet. Indeed, the instruments needed to measure these tiny geomagnetic signals are so sensitive that even a ticking wristwatch upsets them. And yet earth's geomagnetic heart throws a protective shield around the planet. Invisible lines of magnetic force fan out from the South Pole and converge at the North Pole, bowing outward like greatly exaggerated lines of longitude. These force lines intercept streams of high-energy particles ejected from the sun, deflecting them poleward and shedding photons as shimmering light displays \u2013 auroras \u2013 that streak across polar skies.\n\nIt is because earth's magnetic force lines radiate from south to north that the magnetized needles in our compasses also point to north. The arrangement of the force field means that a compass needle at the equator will lie flat, but will become more inclined at increasing latitudes, eventually standing straight up on end at the poles. And just as the unerring compass needle directed the travels of the early navigators, so natural magnetic needles locked into rock set the course for twentieth-century planetary explorers.\n\n## The palaeo-magicians\n\nAs magma cools and crystallizes, or sediment settles, internal magnetic forces in iron-rich minerals like magnetite align with the magnetic pole. Rock forming today would have those minerals directed northwards, but the earth's magnetic field has reversed itself hundreds of times, flipping from north to south. The timing is erratic and the impetus for this switching polarity isn't understood, but alternating mineral 'compasses' within rock sequences preserve a record of these global reversals.\n\nThe palaeomagnetic fabric not only reveals whether the magnetic pole at the time a rock formed was in the north or south, but also what its original latitude was. Rocks laid down at the equator develop horizontal magnetic minerals whereas in rocks formed at high latitudes they are steeply inclined. From these ancient rock compasses, palaeomagnetists found that strata often originated in latitudes very different to the ones they now found themselves in. A study in 1954 reported that 200-million-year-old rocks in England had started out close to the equator. Either the rocks had moved (and the land mass with them) or the earth's whole magnetic field had wandered.\n\nYears of furious debate and intensive measurement followed, but by the late 1950s a consistent answer was emerging: Europe and North America had shared a common palaeomagnetic path until 200 million years ago, but since that time their courses had diverged. That parting of the ways corresponded to the opening of the Atlantic Ocean. It was the first scientific proof of relative movement between land masses. The palaeo-magicians had conjured up the resurrection of continental drift.\n\n## Southern drifters\n\nIn truth, driftist thinking had never disappeared entirely. It had just gone south. After all, it was in the southern hemisphere where the geological evidence for continental coupling was most apparent. So, while most American and European geologists thought they had killed off Wegener's folly, far-flung scientific outposts in South Africa and Australia kept it alive through the 1930s and 1940s. And as geologists down under mapped the land in ever greater detail, more evidence for continental movements emerged.\n\nIn New Zealand, geologist Harold Wellman spent the early 1940s mapping a pulverized fracture line along the length of the Alpine mountain chain of South Island. In 1948, he showed that across this Alpine Fault identical rock units had been shunted sideways by 500 kilometres. At the same time, the New Zealand-born Bert Quennell was mapping 107 kilometres of horizontal displacement on the Dead Sea Fault through Jordan, Israel and Syria. What could drive such immense geological shifts?\n\nWorking in semi-isolation outside the northern 'fixist' mainstream, the southern 'drifters' were developing their own mechanisms. The most radical came from the Tasmanian geologist Warren Carey, who in 1956 argued that the oceans were relatively recent features on a globe that was increasing in size over time. Carey's 'expanding earth' model conceived the surface of the planet to be the result of it steadily enlarging through the opening of rifts and chasms. Such rifts were known from East Africa and the Red Sea, but might they also extend beneath the oceans?\n\nBert Quennell mapping the Dead Sea Fault.\n\n## Mapping the ocean deep\n\nIn the early 1950s, funded by Cold War military operations and the commercial laying of seabed communication cables, two American geologists at the Lamont Geological Observatory near New York began to systematically map the floor of the Atlantic Ocean.\n\nBruce Heezen was a prodigious gatherer of sea-floor data from countless oceanographic cruises, and Marie Tharp was a 'human computer' converting the raw bathymetric soundings into graphs, profiles and maps. The pair cruised to those parts of the ocean lacking soundings, and by the mid 1950s had amassed an extraordinary data set for the entire Atlantic region. But there was a problem: deep-ocean maps had to be kept classified. It was Tharp who found a creative way around the security restrictions, sketching the numerical data artistically to give a vivid depiction of how the ocean would look if drained of water.\n\nHeezen and Tharp's 1957 'physiographic' geo-artistry of the Atlantic sea floor (and later of the global ocean) was a revelation. Its centrepiece was the vast mid-Atlantic mountain spine, criss-crossed by huge fracture lines and with a narrow V-shaped rift valley snaking along its crest. Heezen and Tharp predicted that this axial rift valley would be traced continuously into the other ocean basins, and over the next few years fellow Lamont oceanographers did just that. By the end of the decade, an almost unknown submarine rift had been mapped for over 37,000 miles (60,000 kilometres) and recognized as the most important structure on the planet. Resembling the stitching of a giant baseball, for Heezen it seemed to perfectly fit an expanding earth.\n\n## The geo-poetry of the spreading sea floor\n\nWhen Princeton geologist Harry Hess skippered an attack transport ship in the Pacific Ocean during the Second World War, he equipped it with a powerful echo sounder and \u2013 battle or no battle \u2013 never turned it off. His wartime surveys continued into the 1950s, charting an ocean floor rather different to that of the Atlantic: flat-topped submarine mountains rose abruptly from the sea floor while its edges often plunged into deep trenches.\n\nSeamounts and ocean trenches had been known for decades, but in 1960 Hess paired them with ridges in a simple, unified scheme. New sea floor was generated at mid-ocean ridges, fed by upwelling mantle currents in the manner first proposed by Arthur Holmes. Either side of these spreading ridges, conveyor belts of hot, buoyant basalt crust moved apart, progressively cooling and subsiding, volcanic peaks becoming relict seamounts. By the time the sea-floor travelator reached distant trenches, the old, cold and dense ocean crust was dragged down by convection currents and reconverted into mantle.\n\nIn Hess's scheme, the planet's ocean floors were impermanent \u2013 continuously created at ridges and readily devoured at trenches. Continents \u2013 more buoyant and so more permanent \u2013 were mobile only because they were passengers catching a ride on a creeping ocean floor. In 1961, Robert Dietz published a similar idea and called it the 'spreading sea-floor theory'. As well as providing a driver for drift, what became dubbed as 'sea-floor spreading' served as an antidote to an expanding earth. The planet itself wasn't spreading \u2013 it was maintaining its girth by continually recycling its ocean floor.\n\n## Reversals of fortune\n\nIn January 1962, Harry Hess travelled to Cambridge University to deliver a talk on the 'impermanence of the ocean floor'. With most geologists still hostile to driftist views, Hess had casually described his idea as 'an essay in geo-poetry'. After all, there was no firm evidence to support the theory of the ocean-floor conveyor belt. But in the audience \u2013 entranced by Hess's vision \u2013 was a final-year undergraduate student who was determined to change that.\n\nFred Vine began studying magnetic patterns on the ocean floor. Marine surveys off the Pacific coast of North America in the mid 1950s had revealed an extraordinary set of high and low magnetic 'zebra stripes' running north\u2013south. When Vine's advisor, Drummond Matthews, found a similar magnetic banding on an ocean ridge in the Indian Ocean, the pair combined the ideas of sea-floor spreading and magnetic reversals. They proposed that each time the earth's magnetic field flipped the magma erupting at the mid-ocean ridge inherited the opposite polarity to the previous batch. The result would be black and white stripes of normal and reverse magnetism arranged symmetrically about the ridge.\n\nUnknown to them, a geophysicist in Toronto, Lawrence Morley, had just tried to publish an identical idea in the journal _Nature_ but it had been rejected as too speculative. When the Cambridge duo submitted their paper to the same journal a few months later, they had better luck. Published in September 1963, the Vine-Matthews hypothesis eventually became accepted as providing the confirmatory barcode for Hess's sea-floor spreading. Recognizing the twist of scientific fate, a few prefer to call it the Vine-Matthews-Morley hypothesis.\n\n## The first touching of a new world\n\nThe ocean floor's geomagnetic barcode could only track sea-floor spreading if the ages of the basalt stripes were known. Age-dating the basalt, however, meant drilling in thousands of metres of water and through the thick, muddy seabed. A single deep hole through the entire ocean crust and into the mantle below had been proposed, but in 1961 the ambitious and costly Project Mohole was abandoned after boring just 13 metres into the basalt basement. Reporting from the drilling barge, the writer John Steinbeck celebrated a heroic failure \u2013 equivalent to 'Columbus's first feeble voyage of discovery' \u2013 predicting that 'on this first touching of a new world the way to discovery lies open'.\n\nSteinbeck was right. The ill-fated Mohole project energized the earth science community. Over the next few years, the USA began to put together the Deep-Sea Drilling Project, to be operated out of Scripps Institute of Oceanography, with a strategy of lots of shallow boreholes rather than grand scientific gestures. A specialist ship was designed and built, a modern version of the venerable _Challenger_ a century before.\n\nIn 1968, the _Glomar Challenger_ set off into South Atlantic waters for its first mission: to put sea-floor spreading to the test. Compelling zebra stripes of magnetic reversals had been revealed across many of the world's ocean ridges but many of the scientists on board remained deeply sceptical; they returned two months later devout converts. The ages from nine short holes drilled across the Mid-Atlantic Ridge perfectly fitted a speculative timescale proposed by the Lamont oceanographer Jim Heirtzler. The oceans now had a barcode reader that could reconstruct their magnetic histories.\n\n## Rock, paper, scissors\n\nFault lines are where much of the planet's geological action is concentrated. Extensional faults dominate the rift valleys that split open the oceans and tug apart the continents. Compressional faults thrust together huge slices of rock to stack up into mountain ranges. And strike-slip faults allow crustal blocks to slide sideways past each other. Generations of geologists were brought up with these three basic classes of fault. Then, in 1965, the University of Toronto geologist Tuzo Wilson discovered a fourth.\n\nWilson had become fascinated by the great fracture lines that slice through mid-ocean ridges. It had been assumed that these must be giant strike-slip faults laterally dislocating a once continuous chain. But in a moment of insight, Wilson guessed they instead acted as links in the ocean ridge chain. As adjacent but offset ridge segments opened, the sea floor in between was forced in opposite directions. A fault was needed to accommodate the opposing motion but, despite their enormous length on the ocean floor, only the section of fault between the ridges actually needed to move. It was a simple idea, which the showman Wilson loved to demonstrate using only a folded scrap of paper with some cuts.\n\nTuzo Wilson's 'transform faults' implied that a mid-ocean ridge operated as a simple geometrical system. They also offered a critical test of how sea-floor spreading worked. Almost immediately, Lamont seismologists monitoring a ridge system in the South Pacific took up the challenge. In 1967, it was confirmed that ocean ridge transform faults were moving exactly as Wilson's paper model predicted. But Pacific earthquakes had even more shocks in store.\n\n## New global shocks\n\nWhen Eisenhower and Khrushchev began the thorny task of negotiating a nuclear test ban in 1958, the tricky technical issue was how it would be policed. Verifying above-ground explosions was easy, but detecting underground blasts required global surveillance. The fledgling science of seismology was suddenly thrust into the glare of international diplomacy. By 1961, the US government had begun funding a World-Wide Standardized Seismograph Network (WWSSN), spending millions of dollars to install the latest earthquake-monitoring equipment around the globe.\n\nWhich explains why, in the mid 1960s, Lamont seismologists Lynn Sykes, Bryan Isacks and Jack Oliver found themselves operating a seismograph network in the Tonga-Fiji area of the South Pacific. Its detailed coverage had verified Wilson's transform faults on nearby ridges but the network also recorded shocks descending 450 miles (720 km) beneath adjacent trenches. 'Dipping zones' of deep earthquakes were known, but the Lamont team's observations imaged a thick, strong slab of Pacific ocean floor being pushed down under the edge of another plate of the earth's crust and actively consumed into the mantle \u2013 in what became known as a 'subduction zone'.\n\nFlushed with their success, the trio used the first few years of WWSSN data to reveal the global picture of earthquakes, including the sites of deep tremors. Alongside the first computer-based map of world seismicity, their 1968 paper contained a simple block diagram of the planet's moving parts; both feature in just about every earth science textbook today. They called their paper 'Seismology and the New Global Tectonics', signalling a scientific world teetering on the brink of revolution.\n\n## Spinning plates\n\nComputers were becoming essential for making sense of the vast amount of data emerging from the oceans, but a crucial insight would come courtesy of an eighteenth-century Swiss mathematician. Leonhard Euler's 1776 theorem, which describes the motion on a sphere as a rotation about a pole to that sphere, was combined with computer modelling by the Cambridge geophysicist Edward Bullard and co-workers to calculate the 'best fit' of the coastlines of the Americas, Africa and Europe. The result, published in 1965, was compelling confirmation of that centuries-old jigsaw puzzle.\n\nBullard's graduate student Dan McKenzie recognized that Euler's theorem of rigid body rotations on a sphere described the crustal motions of Lamont's new global tectonics. Over in Princeton, a young geophysicist called Jason Morgan had precisely the same realization. McKenzie got there first. Working with Robert Parker at Scripps, he combined Euler's theorem with computing power to elegantly resolve the crustal motions of the Pacific Ocean. Their _Nature_ paper was squeezed out in the last week of 1967, beating Morgan's global synthesis by a few months.\n\nBuilding on Morgan's work, however, a young French graduate student at Lamont, Xavier Le Pichon, summarized all the relevant data on a map of the world divided into 'plates', and used palaeomagnetic data to calculate their rates of motion. Le Pichon had entitled his 1968 paper 'Sea-Floor Spreading and Continental Drift' but the unifying theory he presented clearly needed a new name. McKenzie and Parker had suggested 'paving stone tectonics'. Thankfully, it would become known instead as 'plate tectonics'.\n\n## Revolution\n\nThere is no Nobel Prize for geology, but the Japanese equivalent would later be awarded to Morgan, McKenzie and Le Pichon for 'the initiation of the theory of plate tectonics'. It was their recognition of the rigidity of plates that crucially allowed the surface motions of the planet to be precisely resolved in simple, elegant mathematical terms.\n\nQuite who coined the term itself is vague, but what is clear is that by 1969 the key elements of plate tectonics were essentially in place. During the same few years in which The Beatles emerged, spread and broke up, a cultural revolution had overtaken earth science. Devout fixists became converted almost overnight into zealous mobilists. Much of the revolutionary fervour came from a cadre of mainly young agitators at just a few institutions. It was a tectonic coup largely orchestrated from the university campuses of Cambridge, Toronto and Princeton, the Scripps Institute of Oceanography in San Diego and the Lamont Geological Observatory near New York.\n\nBut if the new geophysical theory was to avoid the same fate as Wegener's drift, there were still wrinkles to iron out. There was no clear idea about the forces that drove plate motions, and, more surprising, no direct proof that the planet's surface was measurably on the move. Both these issues would gradually be resolved in the decades that followed. A more acute problem was that the new grand theory of the earth, which had emerged from geophysicists' study of the oceans, had required little input from the continents, or indeed from the geologists that studied them. To secure the revolution, plate tectonics had to work on land too.\n\n## Puzzling in continents\n\nWhile the crustal underlay of earth's oceans is less than 200 million years old, its continents are a puzzling mosaic of geological flotsam and jetsam grafted together over many hundreds of millions to billions of years. Land geologists, aware that the old, messy continents lacked the crisp boundaries and coherent blocks seen by the geophysicists offshore, met plate theory with suspicion and opposition.\n\nA key to unlocking the puzzle of the continents had come from the Canadian geologist Tuzo Wilson. He knew that around North Atlantic shores ancient shallow-marine fossils occurred in two distinct realms. One realm stretched from England and Wales across continental Europe, but also turned up on the eastern seaboard of America, while the other spanned Greenland, Scotland and coastal Norway. Back in 1966, Wilson had proposed that the two realms had been separated by an ancestral ocean, the Iapetus, which had closed along the once continuous line of the Caledonian and Appalachian mountains, prior to the Atlantic opening. Wilson envisaged a global tectonic cycle in which episodes of ocean closure and collision assemble continents only to alternate with periods of break up and sea-floor spreading which undo them.\n\nFrom the 1970s, geologists slowly began to see plate tectonics in the lay of the land. Buried in many mountain heartlands, they found relict slivers of ancient ocean crust \u2013 ophiolites \u2013 the telltale vestiges of long-vanished oceans. They gradually recognized that the so-called 'Wilson cycle' could help explain the complex amalgam of the continents. And, after nearly a century of debate, they had finally worked out the origin of mountains: they form when plates collide.\n\n## A Cinderella tale\n\nIt had taken plate tectonics half a century to emerge from the embers of continental drift, in what one science historian describes as an epic rags-to-riches story: 'The folk tale of Drift is the stuff of myth and legend in which Cinderella, after years of abuse from her vain step-sisters, is visited by the Fairy Geophysicist, is touched by the Magnetic Wand, goes to the Ball and marries the Prince.'\n\nThe fifty years following the revolution would not witness such dramatic transformations. The plate tectonic machine was tinkered with and fine-tuned but its rigid cogs remained intact. Moving plates \u2013 the most efficient way for our planet to lose its radiogenic heat \u2013 involve not only the outer crust but also the strong upper part of the mantle, which together form earth's fractured lithospheric shell. Seven 'major' plates and a scattering of 'micro' plates are continually in motion. Moving a few centimetres a year \u2013 roughly the rate at which our fingernails grow \u2013 they slide for thousands of kilometres across the weaker, hot mantle below.\n\nIn modern parlance, tectonic plates split at 'divergent' plate boundaries, not so much dragged by convecting mantle currents as pulled by their slab edges subducting at 'convergent' plate boundaries, such as those that encircle the Pacific Ocean. Where ocean and continental margins converge, subduction forms volcanic chains and mountain belts, such as along the South American Andes. Plate convergence ultimately brings about head-on continent-continent collision, forming great mountain ramparts like the Alpine-Himalayan chain. Elsewhere, plates grind past each other along 'conservative' boundaries, including the most famous fault on the planet: the San Andreas Fault.\n\n## A fatal attraction\n\nThe San Andreas Fault was discovered in 1895 by the Scots-born geologist Andrew Lawson, but it was the devastating 1906 San Francisco earthquake that truly revealed it. Lawson led a forensic survey of picket fences and roads displaced metres across the fault, allowing Harry Reid to develop his 'elastic rebound theory', which confirmed earthquakes as the result of rupture on faults. But why was the fault there?\n\nIn 1970, the Scripps geologist Tanya Atwater showed that California was a collage of crustal pieces assembled by plate motion along the San Andreas transform over 30 million years. Today, millions of people live within striking distance of its seismic jolts, but on balance California's great wrench gives more than it takes. Its dramatic tectonic landscape of young oil-rich coastal hills and well-watered central valley support the industries of oil, agriculture, wine and tourism that earn the state billions of dollars each year, many times more than the economic toll of its occasional damaging earthquakes. The human toll, of course, is harder to cost.\n\nAround the world, fault lines have since antiquity offered lush, fertile corridors for human settlement. With the rising population and economic boom of the twentieth century, however, that strategic advantage has turned into a fatal attraction. Villages and towns long tethered to active fault lines have swollen into huge urban targets. Many of the world's largest cities lie in plate boundary zones, and while recent centuries have seen few events like the 1906 earthquake directly strike major population centres, humanity's good fortune is unlikely to last.\n\n## Plumes and problems\n\nIt was Jason Morgan, the Princeton geologist, who in 1971 recognized that the Hawaiian archipelago is perhaps the most direct expression of earth's moving plates. The islands extend for over 2,000 kilometres, forming a chain that is progressively older from south to north. Morgan argued this marked the track of the Pacific plate over a 'hot spot', where a plume of superheated rock rose from the deep mantle. Leaking up through the thin ocean plate, the Hawaiian plume emerges as outpourings of basalt lava to build the largest volcanic edifices on earth: shield volcanoes.\n\nMantle plumes may underpin other volcanic islands, such as Reunion, in the Indian Ocean, and Iceland. But it is still unclear how such thermal upwellings \u2013 which originate deep down at the core and rise much like buoyant blobs in giant lava lamps \u2013 can remain fixed while the mantle they pass through is actively convecting. What is clear is that Hess's notion of spreading ridges being directly fed by convective plumes is wrong. Instead, stretching of ocean crust depressurizes hot mantle material, lowering its melting temperature and transforming it to molten basalt, which then erupts out.\n\nSimilarly, the popular view that volcanoes at subduction zones result from the melting of the descending slab below is too simplistic. Instead, water from the wet slab reduces the melting temperature of the mantle above, causing it to partially melt. As that magma rises through the overlying plate, a cargo of crustal contaminants make the melt increasingly viscous, slowing its progress such that it may either 'freeze' at depth, as granitic roots, or reach the surface as a sticky lava loaded with trapped gas, which erupts with explosive violence.\n\n## The view from space\n\nIn 1957, when the Russian launch of the first satellite, _Sputnik 1_ , set the space race running, few scientists considered our planet's surface to be on the move. Although within a decade that mobilist view would become broadly accepted, it would take a further thirty years \u2013 and satellites \u2013 to actually prove it.\n\nConfirmation would once again come via the tools of global warfare \u2013 precise satellite-tracking and gravity-field measurement for the surveillance and targeting of ballistic missiles. In 1986, after five years of space-based monitoring, ground stations in the USA and Norway were found to be moving apart by 2 centimetres per year, while the rate of sea-floor shortening between Hawaii and Tokyo was 8 centimetres per year. The velocities were exactly as predicted from geological rates averaged over millions of years.\n\nThe modern mutation from ocean-based to space-borne plate tectonics research has opened an exciting new frontier in the study of our dynamic planet. Satellites such as the new European Sentinel series can detect millimetre-scale changes in earth's surface, imaging the ground motions of individual earthquakes and volcanic crises. Perhaps even more astonishing are the gravity measurements that discriminate the density differences between continents and oceans in unprecedented detail. New gravity images of the ocean floor resolve previously unknown remnants of abandoned continental slivers. Beneath Mauritius and the Seychelles in the Indian Ocean lie the geological roots of ancestral Mauritia and beyond New Zealand is the submerged bulk of greater Zealandia. Not the mythical land bridges but the fractured modern reality of Wegener's lost Pangaea.\n\n## Pale blue dot\n\nSpace changed the way we viewed our planet. Earth as a 'pale blue dot' against a spangled blackness became an icon for a new holistic science that emerged in the 1970s. It was led by the English scientist James Lovelock, working with NASA on detecting life on other planets. Lovelock argued that life and its environment on the earth form a single system that self-regulates to maintain a habitable state. His 1979 'Gaia hypothesis' met with an explosion of public popularity and an implosion of scientific rejection.\n\nAnd yet it was an old idea. Back in 1783, James Hutton \u2013 the father of modern geology \u2013 had written in his seminal _Theory of the Earth_ about the physiology of the planet, asking: 'Is this world to be considered [...] merely as a machine... [o]r may it not be also considered as an organized body?' A century later, the pre-eminent geologist Eduard Suess coined the term 'biosphere' to describe the 'totality of the animated Earth which live above the lithosphere', renamed the ocean water as the 'hydrosphere' and argued that all earth's spheres (including the atmosphere) were tightly coupled.\n\nToday, the interconnected geological tradition of Hutton, Suess and Lovelock defines modern earth system science. At its heart is plate tectonics. But this encompasses much more than simply the rigid cogs and wheels of a remarkable planetary engine. Plate tectonics regulates the planet, recycling not only its crust but with it water and other ingredients essential for life. Our rocky neighbours \u2013 Mercury, Mars, Venus and the moon \u2013 may once have been tectonically active but now, lacking moving plates, they are dry and inert. That life exists on that third rock from the sun \u2013 which we call 'home' \u2013 is thanks to plate tectonics.\n\n## Further reading\n\nPeter Molnar _Plate Tectonics: A Very Short Introduction_ (Oxford University Press, 2015)\n\nNaomi Oreskes _Plate Tectonics: An Insider's History of the Modern Theory of the Earth_ (revised edn; Westview Press, 2003)\n\nNaomi Oreskes _The Rejection of Continental Drift: Theory and Method in American Earth Science (_ Oxford University Press, 1999)\n\nRobert Muir Wood _The Dark Side of the Earth_ (HarperCollins, 1986)\n\nMott T. Greene _Alfred Wegener: Science, Exploration, and the Theory of Continental Drift_ (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2015)\n\nHenry R. Frankel _The Continental Drift Controversy: Evolution into Plate Tectonics_ (Cambridge University Press, 2016)\n\nJohn McPhee _Annals of the Former World_ (Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc., 2000)\n\nJohn McPhee _Assembling California (_ Josef Weinberger Plays, 1994)\n\nJack Oliver _Shocks and Rocks: Seismology in the Plate Tectonics Revolution (_ Atlantic Books, 1986)\n\nHazel Rymer and Stephen Drury _Earth's Engine_ (5th edn, Open University, 2013)\n\nSeries 117\n\nThis is a Ladybird Expert book, one of a series of titles for an adult readership. Written by some of the leading lights and outstanding communicators in their fields and published by one of the most trusted and well-loved names in books, the Ladybird Expert series provides clear, accessible and authoritative introductions, informed by expert opinion, to key subjects drawn from science, history and culture.\n_The Publisher would like to thank the following for the illustrative references for this book:_ here: chart courtesy of the U. S. Geological Survey; here: map image from National Geographic Maps\/ National Geographic Creative; here: reference for Fred Vine taken from photograph: Fred Vine and Drummond Matthews at the University of East Anglia, 1970 \u00a9 The British Library by permission of Fred Vine; charts courtesy of the United States Geological Survey (USGS); here: diagram from A harbinger of plate tectonics: a commentary on Bullard, Everett and Smith (1965) 'The fit of the continents around the Atlantic', John F. Dewey, _Phil. Trans. R. Soc._ A 2015 373 20140227; DOI: 10.1098\/rsta.2014.0227. Published 6 March 2015; here: top chart: 'Iapetus Fossil Evidence' courtesy of Wouldloper via Wikimedia Commons; bottom map: Permit Number CP17\/078 British Geological Survey \u00a9 NERC 2017. All rights reserved.\n\nEvery effort has been made to ensure images are correctly attributed; however, if any omission or error has been made please notify the Publisher for correction in future editions.\n\n##### MICHAEL JOSEPH\n\nUK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia\n\nIndia | New Zealand | South Africa\n\nMichael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com\n\nFirst published 2018\n\nText copyright \u00a9 Iain Stewart, 2018\n\nAll images copyright \u00a9 Ladybird Books Ltd, 2018\n\nThe moral right of the author has been asserted\n\nCover illustration by Ruth Palmer\n\nISBN: 978-1-405-93073-4\n\n## Contents\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title Page\n  3. Map\n  4. Earth puzzle\n  5. Voyages of discovery\n  6. Greater glory\n  7. The face of the earth\n  8. A man adrift\n  9. A man of convection\n  10. From land to sea\n  11. A planetary force field\n  12. The palaeo-magicians\n  13. Southern drifters\n  14. Mapping the ocean deep\n  15. The geo-poetry of the spreading sea floor\n  16. Reversals of fortune\n  17. The first touching of a new world\n  18. Rock, paper, scissors\n  19. New global shocks\n  20. Spinning plates\n  21. Revolution\n  22. Puzzling in continents\n  23. A Cinderella tale\n  24. A fatal attraction\n  25. Plumes and problems\n  26. The view from space\n  27. Pale blue dot\n  28. Further reading\n  29. Copyright Page\n\n  1. \n  2. \n  3. \n  4. \n  5. \n  6. \n  7. \n  8. \n  9. \n  10. \n  11. \n  12. \n  13. \n  14. \n  15. \n  16. \n  17. \n  18. \n  19. \n  20. \n  21. \n  22. \n  23. \n  24. \n  25. \n  26. \n  27. \n  28. \n  29. \n  30. \n  31. \n  32. \n  33. \n  34. \n  35. \n  36. \n  37. \n  38. \n  39. \n  40. \n  41. \n  42. \n  43. \n  44. \n  45. \n  46. \n  47. \n  48. \n  49. \n  50. \n  51.\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Table of Contents\n  3. Begin Reading\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n**1636**\n\n**THE KREMLIN  \nGAMES**\n\nERIC FLINT\n\nGORG HUFF\n\nPAULA GOODLETT\n\n**BAEN BOOKS by ERIC FLINT**\n\n**The Ring of Fire series:**\n\n_1632_\n\n_1633_ with David Weber\n\n_1634: The Baltic War_ with David Weber\n\n_1634: The Galileo Affair_ with Andrew Dennis\n\n_1634: The Bavarian Crisis_ with Virginia DeMarce\n\n_1634: The Ram Rebellion_ with Virginia DeMarce et al\n\n_1635: The Cannon Law_ with Andrew Dennis\n\n_1635: The Dreeson Incident_ with Virginia DeMarce\n\n_1635: The Tangled Web_ by Virginia DeMarce\n\n_1635: The Eastern Front_\n\n_1636: The Saxon Uprising_\n\n_1636: The Kremlin Games_ with Gorg Huff & Paula Goodlett\n\n_1636: Papal Stakes_ with Charles E. Gannon (forthcoming)\n\n_Grantville Gazette_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Grantville Gazette II_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Grantville Gazette III_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Grantville Gazette IV_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Grantville Gazette V_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Grantville Gazette VI_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Ring of Fire_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Ring of Fire II_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Ring of Fire III_ ed. by Eric Flint\n\n_Time Spike_ with Marilyn Kosmatka\n\n**For a complete list of Baen Books by Eric Flint,**\n\n**please go to www.baen.com.**\n\n1636: The Kremlin Games\n\nThis is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2012 by Eric Flint, Gorg Huff & Paula Goodlett\n\nAll rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.\n\nA Baen Books Original\n\nBaen Publishing Enterprises\n\nP.O. Box 1403\n\nRiverdale, NY 10471\n\nwww.baen.com\n\nISBN: 978-1-4516-3776-2\n\nCover art by Tom Kidd\n\nMaps by Gorg Huff\n\nFirst printing, June 2012\n\nDistributed by Simon & Schuster\n\n1230 Avenue of the Americas\n\nNew York, NY 10020\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nFlint, Eric.\n\n1636 : the Kremlin games \/ Eric Flint, Gorg Huff, Paula Goodlett.\n\np. cm. \u2014 (Ring of fire ; 14)\n\nISBN 978-1-4516-3776-2 (hc)\n\n1. Time travel\u2014Fiction. 2. Seventeenth century\u2014Fiction. 3. West Virginia\u2014History\u2014Fiction. 4. Russia\u2014History\u2014Fiction. I. Huff, Gorg. II. Goodlett, Paula. III. Title. IV. Title: Sixteen thirty-six.\n\nPS3556.L548A61867 2012\n\n813'.54\u2014dc23\n\n2012003330\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nPages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\n_To science and technology,_\n\n_which changes our lives, improves our lives, and often saves our lives._\n\n_And pfui to the nay-sayers._\n\n**Part One**\n\n**_The year 1631_**\n**Chapter 1**\n\n**_Grantville_**\n\n**_October 1631_**\n\nVladimir Gorchakov pulled his horse up as he saw Boris Ivanovich Petrov stopping to look around. \"Apparently Tilly's tercio commander wasn't the liar we thought he was.\"\n\n\"This place is worth the trip,\" Boris said. \"See the cuts in the earth where the land was changed? Look at these hills. The structure is different from those outside the ring. Everything inside this Ring of Fire is different.\"\n\nMost of their entourage was still on its way from Jena, but neither he nor Boris had wanted to delay long enough to sell all their trade goods or drag what was left along with them. They had left the matter in the hands of Fedor Ivanovich and ridden on ahead, with just two attendants.\n\n\"I was convinced it was a fraud of some sort.\" Boris was shaking his head in wonder. \"But anyone who could fake this kind of thing would have too much power to need to fake anything.\"\n\nVladimir nodded to the bureau man and patted his horse. \"I believed it was a preposterous lie right up until we got to Jena. It was the up-timer and that APC that made me start to suspect it might not be. Once you've seen one of those 'cars,' well, you must believe that something has happened.\"\n\n\"For me it was the view from Rudolstadt.\" Boris grinned. \"But I am a cynic. Cars can be made by men. Not this!\" He waved at the circle of inward- and outward-facing cliffs.\n\nVladimir remembered his first sight of over a mile of mirror-smooth cliffs. It had been beyond impressive. It was as though God had taken a scoop out of the earth and replaced it with a scoop of something else. He could see Boris' point.\n\nVladimir looked over at Boris. Boris Ivanovich was an unassuming little man, the sort of man who could blend in anywhere and not be noticed. He didn't look at all impressive. Appearances lied. Boris was a bureaucrat of Russia, specifically of the _Posol'sky Prikaz_ , the Embassy Bureau or State Department. He was an experienced spy and a well-traveled agent. He spoke, read, and wrote Russian, Polish, Danish, German, English, and, of course, Latin and Greek. He had been assigned to accompany Vladimir Petrovich on this \"fool's errand\" by the czar's father in an attempt to keep the czar from looking any more foolish than could be avoided. _And probably_ , Vladimir acknowledged, _to keep me out of trouble_.\n\nVladimir was sure Boris had his own thoughts about the situation. He could even make a good guess about what Boris was thinking. Not that any of it showed on Boris' face. Boris, at the moment, was wearing his I'm-too-dumb-to-pound-sand look. No, it was the situation; any bureau man would be thinking the same thing. Boris' rank in the bureaucracy that ran Russia was higher than Vladimir's, or had been. He had been demoted without prejudice for this mission since Vladimir was a _kniaz,_ a prince. Vladimir, as a prince with almost independent lands\u2014combined with his friendship with the czar\u2014was almost certain to end up as a boyar of the cabinet. It would be totally inappropriate to have him under the orders of someone with Boris' lack of pedigree. But without prejudice or not, it was still a demotion. And if things went wrong it would be really easy to leave Boris demoted. That had been a major concern on their way here, Vladimir knew.\n\nThe fact that Grantville wasn't a hoax presented Boris with both problems and opportunities. Powerful people didn't like to be proven wrong, and there was more than a little bit of a tendency to kill the messenger in the Russian government. On the other hand, the fact that Grantville was not a hoax meant that keeping the czar from looking foolish in sending the mission became much easier. Certain people at court were not going to like that, either.\n\nMoreover, since Grantville did exist, a network of spies would have to be put in place to watch it. Boris was in an excellent position to end up an important figure in that network. And the politics of the situation meant the Grantville Office in Moscow would be an important one. Poland was Russia's great enemy at the moment and Germany was just the other side of it. Now a section of Germany was peaceful and relatively prosperous instead of being torn up by war. The up-timers, as the locals called them, had to be encouraged to take Sweden's side. So far they had friendly relations with the Swedish king but nothing more than that.\n\n\"It is not such a large place,\" Vladimir said, looking around as they rode, and patting the horse's neck now and then. \"And there are not so many up-timers as I had thought.\"\n\n\"A small place, yes, but it will play a large role,\" Boris said. \"The cars, APC's\u2014or whatever their proper name\u2014the improved roads, that device we saw in the fields outside Rudolstadt . . .\" Vladimir knew what Boris was talking about though he didn't know the name either. Whatever they called it, it did the work of a village of serfs faster and possibly cheaper.\n\n\"In a way, more important is that scraping bucket that was pulled by a team of horse,\" Boris continued. \"I would imagine that the cars and that thing in the field are hard to make but the scraping bucket . . . that any Russian smith could build given the idea and a bit of time. This place will change the world. We will need to find any centers of learning they have. Gather quickly the information they give freely. If they really do give it freely.\"\n\n\"Yes, Boris. Look into that as soon as we find a place to stay,\" Vladimir said.\n**Chapter 2**\n\n\"I would like some information,\" Boris said to the woman behind the desk.\n\n\"Your name is?\"\n\n\"Boris Ivanovich Petrov, of Muscovy.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" The woman smiled. \"Russian, then. I wondered about your accent. All I could really tell was eastern European. I'm Cecelia Calafano.\"\n\n\" _Da_ , Russia. That is what we have called the motherland for some time now. It is the rest of Europe that still calls us Muscovy. That has changed in the future?\"\n\n\"Yes, it has,\" the woman Cecelia confirmed. \"How can I help you?\"\n\nBoris smiled at her. \"We've been sent to determine if this place is real.\"\n\nCecelia laughed. \"I've lived here all my life. Trust me, it's real. What did you want to know?\"\n\nThe man behind Boris was clearing his throat, as though Boris were taking too much time. Boris was much too much of a professional to turn and pound the oaf into the floor. Not too much to want to, though.\n\nIt was a moot point. Cecelia gave the oaf a look that melted him on the spot. Apparently, librarian was a post of some importance here. Boris gave her a list he had written in consultation with young Vladimir. Cecelia took a quick look. It was in English, carefully written. She sighed and Boris wondered why. Consistent spelling was some time in the future; it wasn't something that Boris had ever known so wasn't something he missed. It was, to Boris' eye, a perfectly legible list.\n\nShe began to read aloud carefully. \"How to make telephones. A history of the Romanov family. How to make cars. A history of Muscovy, or Russia. I think you're probably in the wrong place.\"\n\nBoris looked at the woman. Here it came the runaround. _Yes, we give such knowledge away, but not here_ was what he was expecting to hear.\n\nWhat heard instead was, \"Never mind,\" followed by another sigh. The meaning of this one was clear. She had seen his response before. \"Some of this you will be able to find here. Like the history of Russia or part of it. I'll get you some books.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBoris examined the books. _Russia Under the Old Regime_ by someone with the very non-Russian name of Pipes. He looked at the table of contents. _Chapter 4: The Anatomy of the Patrimonial Regime._ Boris tried to translate the words to Russian. The body parts of the fatherhood rulers? That sounded positively obscene. Boris worked it out. Anatomy meant the structure of a body . . . perhaps it was used here to represent the structure of the government. Patrimonial regime . . . might mean inherited rule or it might mean government by the church. Was Russia going to be ruled by the priesthood? Considering the relative political strengths of the patriarch and the czar, it could happen. This would be monstrously time-consuming. He looked at the other book. Perhaps it would be clearer. What was the USSR? What was the revolution of 1917? For that matter, what was St. Petersburg? At least, that's what he thought it said. There was no St. Petersburg in his Russia.\n\nHe read through the books as well as he could for several hours, making notes. Some things were clear enough. The year of birth and death of the czar and his son and his grandson. Others weren't. The analysis was just weird. It was all there, Boris thought, but looked at as though through a prism. The light split into the spectra and the image was lost. Was this Pipes an idiot? Upon considering the matter, Boris didn't think so. So might a citizen of Caesar's Rome respond to a history of Rome written by a modern scholar who had never seen the Coliseum or been present at a triumph.\n\nThe woman stopped by a time or two. Handed him what she called a magazine. \"Here,\" she'd said. \"You might find something in this.\"\n\nIt was an old, fragile thing, this magazine. And what did _perestroika_ mean? Boris knew what \"restructuring\" meant, but the word seemed to be used a bit differently here.\n\nMuch befuddled, Boris gave up for now. It was getting late and he needed to get back to the room they had rented. He wasn't going to figure it all out in a day.\n\nIt was as he was putting things away that the librarian came and sat down at the table. \"Can I give you some advice?\"\n\nBoris nodded cautiously.\n\n\"If what you wanted was a nice place to come and read an occasional book, this would be the place for you and I encourage you to do that. However, this isn't the place for what you're after. The Grantville Public Library was never intended to be a center of research. It was designed to be a small-town library at the tail end of the twentieth century. We had interlibrary loans and the Internet. Before the Ring of Fire, if we didn't have the book someone wanted, we could get it in a few weeks through interlibrary loans. What we had on the shelves were the books most likely to be wanted in a small town. A small town that didn't need to make telephones or automobiles. We could buy them. We have books on how to fix an automobile. Those books usually tell the reader how to install a new part that they are expected to buy from an automobile parts supply store that got its parts from a manufacturer in another state. What I mean is, they tell you how to fix a car, not how to make one from scratch.\"\n\nBoris nodded politely, but he was wondering if this was perhaps how they were hiding the important information. That concern decreased as she continued.\n\n\"Shortly after the Ring of Fire, it was decided to use the library at the high school as our national library, our Library of Alexandria.\" The woman gave him a questioning look and he nodded his understanding.\n\nShe continued. \"In it, we have at least one copy of almost all the books that came through the Ring of Fire. In those books there is enough information to tell you how to make an automobile, at least most of it. Even there, it's not all in one book. It's scattered around in books designed to teach children the basics of how things work, in biographies of the people involved in the inventing of the automobile and its mass production and so on.\" The woman took a deep breath. \"That makes it a treasure hunt. It's hard even for a professional to know which book to look in to find the thing you're after. Trying to do it on your own . . .\" She shrugged. \"I recommend you hire a professional researcher. If you don't have the money for that, you can put in information requests and the library researchers will get around to it as they have time. Your other option is to take the library science basic course at the high school and pay the usage fees.\"\n\nBoris considered. The little talk she had given him was well-rehearsed. \"How often do you give that little speech?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"About twice a week.\"\n\n\"About the usage fees you mentioned . . . you don't have them here. Why not?\"\n\n\"We're funded by the national library. We have been since a few months after the Ring of Fire. There was a minor fight in the emergency committee about that, but public libraries being free for public use is a long standing tradition up-time. There was a bigger fight about having fees to use the national library.\" She laughed. \"By the time that fight got going there were already millions of dollars worth of products coming out of the library. People were wondering why the cash-strapped government should pay to make a bunch of people rich. A compromise was worked out. You can get anything you want out of the national library and research center free, if you're willing to wait your turn. And it can be a long wait. You can also pay to get it faster. Quite a lot of people pay either by paying a professional licensed researcher or by taking the course and paying the usage fees.\"\n\nBoris had a lot to think about as he walked back to the room they had rented.\n\n* * *\n\n\"So, Boris how did it go?\" Vladimir asked as Boris looked for a place to sit. The difficulty had to do with the size of the room. Grantville's population growth had far outstripped new construction. Even their small room was expensive.\n\nThe lodgings were fantastically well appointed but horribly cramped. The four of them shared a single bedroom with its own \"half bath,\" an indoor toilet and sink with \"faucets\" that provided hot and cold water. They had access\u2014from two to four in the afternoon\u2014to the main bath, where they could take hot showers.\n\n\"Confusingly, Prince Vladimir,\" Boris said as he sat on the bed. He shook his head. \"It's early yet to tell, but I don't think they are lying about it. Understanding the information is a problem. The English language . . . it has changed. Very much. The woman at their public library freely gave me books to look at. Books that will need to be looked at again. I've made notes.\" Boris waved a sheaf of papers in the air. \"Pages and pages of notes, but very few of them make sense.\"\n\nVladimir started going through the notes. \"This is clear.\" Vladimir pointed at a line. \"Czar Mikhail will . . . have only a few more years. The patriarch . . . much less.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not.\" Boris' face showed very little. \"I asked about that. These up-timers . . . they do not understand what has happened. But their arrival changed many things. The librarian said that those changes will\u2014already have\u2014changed history. In ways not imagined. When I saw that place in the book, I, too, was shocked. The woman was very kind. She asked what was wrong, and then saw the page I looked at. She said that there were things we could do. 'Send the aspirin,' which they have here. It might help or it might not.\"\n\nVladimir nodded. \"We shall, with the first courier.\"\n\nBoris waved the notes aside. \"That is not what I wished to discuss. We can use the public library with no trouble but the real wealth of knowledge is in the national library. From what the woman said, using the national library will entail some cost . . .\" He shrugged. \". . . or unacceptable delay. I am not that concerned about the fees to hire a researcher.\n\n\"I am concerned about two things,\" Boris continued. \"First that the researcher might edit the reports and second that he might sell reports on what we were looking into to agents from other lands. I think we need someone to take the library science course and, at the very least, watch any researcher we hire. For some questions we will want to do the research ourselves.\"\n\n\"That sounds like a job for me,\" Vladimir said. \"I speak the language and am less experienced in some of the other work we will need to do here.\" _In other words, I'm_ _not a very good spy_.\n\nBoris was nodding. \"That was my thought.\" He smiled. \"That will leave the rest of us time to learn how the rest of Europe is responding to this place. Also if you would write the letter to Patriarch Filaret, I would be grateful. That is an area where I suspect you have more skill than the rest of us combined.\"\n\n* * *\n\n_Most esteemed Patriarch,_\n\n_This is not what you expected to read in my report. Nor is it what I expected to write. Tilly's officer was neither insane nor a liar. No one knows the why of it but the Lord God has seen fit to do something remarkable here. I am sitting in a room that has a window covered with a large, flat piece of glass. It lets in the sunlight and the scene outside with no noticeable distortion. In the next room you can turn a knob and have hot water. These things could be the work of skilled artisans. However, they are not all we have seen. There are works of man that could not have been done by the men of our time._\n\n_The Ring of Fire itself could not have been made by men of any age. I do not believe that it could have been made by any power short of the infinite power of God. What they call the Ring of Fire is a circle, as near as anyone can tell a perfect circle, six miles across. Within that circle the land has been replaced with land of a different nature, made of different sorts of stone. The hills are as_ _different as though in a single step you traveled a hundred miles. In the months since the event there has been some weathering. In spite of that, it is easy to see the perfection of the cut. The evidence we have found is too consistent to be false. They are from the future._\n\n_As I write this, I know that you will realize that I am only reporting what I have determined from this up-time history. The news is not good. War with Poland, right now, is destined to fail. Russia does not have the resources needed. As Colonel Leslie has said many times, the army lacks the proper training and discipline._\n\n_I must urge that the attempts to modernize the army take precedence. Also, that any attempt against Poland be delayed until that is complete. See the report attached._\n\n_Additionally, and this is most important, you are at risk, as is your son, our Most Holy Czar. The death of either of you would leave Russia exposed to more troubles. I include in this package a vial of medicine that may assist you both, in the hope that it may help. The histories speak of your death in the year 1633, but they do not specify the cause. I have spoken to the up-time physicians, who tell me that this medicine is often prescribed to those at risk of heart failures. It has the added benefit of relieving aches and pains._\n\n_Also, see the pamphlets translated with the aid of up-timers. They tell much about the avoidance and treatment of disease. I urge you most sincerely to give them full credence. The doctors from up-time are already considered miracle workers by the local Germans . . ._\n\nVladimir had struggled with that letter. How did you tell a man that the goal of his lifetime was a disaster and that he was scheduled to die soon? Perhaps, though, Patriarch Filaret would be comforted by the rest of the information he was sending.\n\n* * *\n\n\"When do we go home?\" Trotsky asked.\n\nIt was a tender subject. Fedor Ivanovich Trotsky was a bureau man from the lower nobility. In essence, he was the expedition's secretary and ranked fourth or fifth in the group\u2014but only second to Boris as a secret agent. So if Vladimir and Boris left for home, Trotsky would wind up in charge. He would run the network competently enough, but with little or no imagination.\n\n\"That has become a rather more difficult question,\" Vladimir said. The mission was to come to the Ring of Fire, find out that it was nothing, then go home. \"The Ring of Fire does exist after all, and is a repository of great knowledge.\"\n\n\"Trotsky does have a point, Prince Vladimir,\" Boris said. \"We're here only to confirm the existence of the place, not to immigrate to it.\"\n\n\"I know. But there is so much here that we need in Russia. You know as well as I do that as soon as Patriarch Filaret hears what we have found, he will want a permanent presence here.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Boris agreed. \"Assuming he believes us.\"\n\n_That's a touchy point_ , Vladimir thought. It wasn't that the patriarch or the czar lacked faith in their powers of observation. But a town from the future wasn't the easiest thing to believe. \"We'll take proof or send it.\"\n\n\"Send it?\" Trotsky asked.\n\nTrotsky was a bit of a stickler for authority. A tendency that hadn't been diminished at all by Vladimir's pointing out that he shared a name with a famous revolutionary of the future.\n\n\"Yes, send it. I realize that some of us are going to have to go home but . . .\" Vladimir paused, trying to figure out how to put it.\n\n\"The histories we have seen have shown Mother Russia lagging behind the West in wealth and prestige,\" Boris finished for him. \"I suspect that the prince is concerned that we will fall even further behind in this timeline.\"\n\n\"Well, at the least I see the Ring of Fire as an opportunity to let Russia avoid the errors of that other history,\" Vladimir said. \"An opportunity that might be lost if we just go home. There will be factions at court that won't want to look ahead and will oppose anything that might upset the social order.\"\n\n\"If some of us are to stay here,\" Boris said, \"we will have to send as conclusive a proof as we can manage.\"\n**Chapter 3**\n\nVladimir had been told that the Thuringen Gardens was a good place to relax and have a drink and he was feeling in need of both. The very large beer hall was crowded and noisy. Vladimir found himself a seat against one wall and waved to a waitress, then looked around again while he waited for his beer. At the next table was what appeared to be an up-timer somewhat in his cups. You couldn't always tell. Many of the down-timers had adopted up-timer dress. But the fellow was muttering into his beer in English with the up-timer accent. Vladimir's beer arrived, he paid and drank. It was good beer, substantial.\n\n\"I wish all this hadn't happened,\" the up-timer muttered.\n\n\"You wish what hadn't happened?\" Vladimir asked.\n\nThe up-timer looked at Vladimir a bit blearily, raised his mug and indicated the world around him with a sweeping motion of his hand. Unfortunately, about half the beer spilled. \"Damn. Something else to wish hadn't happened.\"\n\nVladimir chuckled. \"You should be more careful. The beer is good, and should not be wasted. It's a bit, ah, high-priced to throw around the room.\"\n\n\"No shit, Sherlock.\" The up-timer snorted. \"Oops. Sorry. I forget sometimes that I'm not back in the world. I guess I shouldn't say things like that anymore. Somebody might take it the wrong way.\"\n\n\"No\" and \"shit\" were words Vladimir knew, though he could think of nothing offensive about \"No shit.\" The term \"sherlock\" was unknown to him. Perhaps it was the offensive party.\n\nVladimir stood up. \"Might I join you at your table?\" He walked the two feet that separated them. \"I would like to know what 'no shit, sherlock' means. You Americans, you have such odd expressions. Another one I don't understand is 'a screw loose.' How that is different from 'being loose' or 'screwing around'?\" Vladimir had spent some hours reading a novel yesterday, trying to gain a better understanding of the changes in English.\n\n\"Sure, join me.\" The up-timer used a foot to move a chair out from under the table. \"Have a seat. I'm Bernie Zeppi.\"\n\n\"I am _Kniaz_ Vladimir Gorchakov of Muscovy,\" Vladimir said, taking the vacant seat. Vladimir waved at the waitress and mimed his desire for a pitcher of beer. The waitress nodded.\n\n\"Is _Kniaz_ your first name?\" Bernie Zeppi asked, which told Vladimir that even in his cups the man was observant.\n\n\"No. _Kniaz_ is a title. It can be translated into English as anything from a prince to a duke or perhaps a count, if the Englishman is being particularly rude.\" Vladimir shrugged. \"I am a relatively low-ranked _kniaz_. So, what did you mean by 'all this'?\"\n\n\"I mean all of it.\" Bernie waved at the room, this time with the hand that didn't contain a mug of beer. \"The Ring of Fire, it killed my mom, gave me PTSD. I did my part. I was at the Crapper and Jena. But there's too many mechanics for the private cars we have running. And I don't want to sit in a factory, babying an old engine that's been pulled to power it. No way I'm going to tie myself down into the Mechanical Support Division working for the government. So now I'm stuck on the work gangs, trying to get by.\"\n\n\"You are not in your army?\" Vladimir asked. \"I thought most of the young men were in the army.\"\n\n\"I told you I was at the Crapper and Jena. I'm in the reserves. I go if they call, but not until. I didn't end up covered in glory like Jeff Higgins. Imagine a nerd like Jeff Higgins ending up a hero.\" Bernie paused and shook his head. \"Not me, though. Just the breaks. They haven't been running my way since the Ring of Fire.\" Another pause. \"What's Muscovy? Your turn to answer a question.\"\n\nIt was a question Vladimir had gotten before. \"Russia, but most nations of western Europe don't call it that yet.\"\n\n\"So what are you doing in Grantville?\"\n\n\"Spying.\" Vladimir grinned.\n\n\"Are you supposed to tell people that?\" Bernie grinned back. \"I wouldn't think an espionage agent would just walk up to someone and say 'Hi, I'm a spy.'\"\n\n\"Well, it saves time. Officially I'm a representative of the czar, here to determine if the stories about Grantville are true.\" Vladimir grinned again without a thought. It came easily to him. \"Everyone in Europe has spies in Grantville. I'm expecting spies from China to show up any day now.\"\n\nBernie laughed. \"Yeah, China. Why not? So, what vital secret are you trying to get out of me, Mr. Spy?\"\n\n\"How many planets are in the solar system?\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"How many planets are there?\"\n\n\"Why do you want to know that?\" Bernie looked at Vladimir with puzzled face.\n\nVladimir took a sip of beer. \"Do you know?\"\n\n\"Well, yes. Nine, but so what? Everybody knows that.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. What people outside of Grantville know, if they know anything, is that there are six.\"\n\n\"Six?\"\n\n\"Yes. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. And they only know that if they're educated and not too conservative. Otherwise they think that the sun, the Moon, and all the planets go around the Earth on crystal spheres. Now that I have done my work for today, care for another beer?\" Vladimir took up the recently delivered pitcher and poured Bernie a refill. \"And after that, we can do tomorrow's work, if you like. What are the names of the other three planets?\"\n\n\"Gee, I don't know, Vladimir.\" Bernie smirked. \"Well, I might know. But a beer isn't going to buy that information. A sandwich might, though.\"\n\nVladimir pondered something Zeppi had mentioned earlier. He cleared his throat. \"I do not mean to be rude, but is this 'PTSD' a disease I need to worry about? What do you call it? An 'infectious disease,' I believe.\"\n\nBernie stared at him for a moment and then barked a little laugh. \"No, you can relax. It's not exactly a disease. More like a mental condition. The initials stand for 'post-traumatic stress disorder.' I got it at the battle of the Crapper.\"\n\nVladimir considered that information for a moment. He knew enough English to make rough sense out of the expression, but the precise meaning still escaped him.\n\n\"You were badly injured?\" he asked.\n\nZeppi drained his beer and set the mug down carefully. \"No. It was the other way around. I'm a very good shot and it turns out I don't freeze in combat like a lot of guys do.\" His face was completely expressionless. \"I killed a lot of men that day. At least five, probably more. I get flashbacks about it, still.\"\n\nThe term \"flashback\" was unfamiliar, but Vladimir thought he understood the essence of the matter.\n\nInteresting. It seemed there were some depths to the man not apparent at first glance.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie wasn't quite sure how it happened but by the end of the evening he had a part-time job. As a spy, no less. He did make it clear that he wouldn't betray the folks in Grantville. That didn't seem to be what interested the Russian spy, though.\n\n* * *\n\nVladimir grinned at Boris' expression or lack of one. \"I know that he's not a trained agent or in a particularly valuable position, but that's all to the good.\"\n\nBoris just looked at him.\n\n\"Yes, I want to send him to Russia,\" Vladimir said. \"And not just as proof the up-timers exist. That too, but I've been thinking.\"\n\nBoris' face got even blanker, if that was possible.\n\n\"I can probably get copies of up-time books and pamphlets but translations are another matter. You speak English as well as anyone I know, Boris. How well have you done translating the language the up-timers speak to the English of our time? We want him for his up-time knowledge, Boris, not his abilities as a spy. And he's not as stupid as he seems at first. Just undirected. Remember, these up-timers have their own time of troubles with the Ring of Fire. Bernie's mother died on the day of the Battle of the Crapper for lack of up-time medicines. He's having trouble adjusting to the strange new world he has been thrust into. Also, his life so far has been one of privilege. I know dozens of sons of great houses who are like him. Nothing they really need to do, so they play with their horses and their hawks and ignore the wider world. Bernie has his cars, his computer, and video games.\"\n\nBoris shook his head. \"I don't disapprove, Prince Vladimir. I realize that he has value. Just access to his computer is worth more than we are paying him. I take it you mean to stay here while I take Bernie back to Russia in your place.\"\n\n\"That's an interesting way of putting it,\" Vladimir said. \"But I mean it more as an example of why I have to stay here for a while. We've talked about this a bit, but I've been thinking about it a lot. I think I have come up with a plan that will help Russia and us.\"\n\nThey talked it out, Boris' part and the part that Vladimir expected his sister to play.\n**Chapter 4**\n\nBernie wasn't drunk but he did have a little buzz going. He'd mostly had something of a buzz going since the Battle of the Crapper and in the process had pretty much alienated everyone in his family. Mostly everyone he knew except Brandy, a waitress at the Club 250. He was a functional alcoholic; he didn't drink enough most of the time to render himself incapable of doing his job, but often he had enough of a buzz to keep him from doing it as well as he might. Most days since meeting Vladimir in the Gardens, he had dropped by and talked with Vladimir or Boris about whatever was on their minds. Or they had dropped by his place to talk and use his computer. Today they were at Bernie's house. At least till his dad threw him out, which was looking like it might come any day now.\n\nBoris was slowly and carefully tapping keys on the keyboard and Vladimir was sipping his beer.\n\n\"Bernie,\" Vladimir said, \"we have an offer to make you.\"\n\n\"They've been pretty good offers so far, Vladimir,\" Bernie said. \"What have you got in mind?\" Bernie was sort of hoping that Vladimir wanted to hire him full-time so he could quit the road gangs.\n\n\"How would you like to live in Russia?\"\n\nThat pulled Bernie up short. Russia had had a sucky reputation in the twentieth century and it had an even suckier one in the seventeenth. Bernie sat back and gave Vladimir a serious look. \"Honestly, Vladimir? I probably wouldn't. Nothing against your homeland, but from what I understand, life there isn't pleasant. Even less pleasant than it is here, and Germany is in the middle of a war. I'm used to hot and cold running water, flush toilets and the like.\"\n\nBoris snorted from the keyboard of the computer. \"Granted, we don't have hot and cold running water, but we have pretty servant girls in plenty to carry the water. And carrying water isn't all they do. The quality of life in this century\u2014and I would imagine in yours as well\u2014is greatly dependent on your status. Here you are one up-timer among many and while up-timer carries a certain status . . .\" Boris turned from the computer and looked Bernie in the eye. \"Your status here is close to the bottom of that of up-timers. In Russia you would be the only up-timer and vital to a project that would be of value to all of Russia. That would naturally entail considerably higher status than you enjoy here. Status in Russia carries more privileges than it does here.\"\n\nVladimir shrugged. \"Give it some thought, Bernie. But think quickly if you will. Boris must return to Moscow to report soon, and I would like to send you with him.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBernie did give it some thought, enough that he almost sobered up to think about it. The truth was that there wasn't much here for him except harsh looks from his family and manual labor. Besides, the notion of willing serving girls appealed to him, although it wasn't the big draw that Boris seemed to assume it would be. Even screwed up the way he'd been since the Ring of Fire, Bernie never had much trouble getting laid.\n\nThe big attraction was simply that it would be a big change. Bernie wasn't given to what he considered excessive introspection, but he'd have to be a complete dimwit not to understand that if he didn't do something to turn his life around\u2014and dramatically, at that\u2014he'd just keep sliding down into a pit. If he stayed here he'd probably drink himself to death in the next few years.\n\nStill, much as he had come to like Vladimir, it was Boris that he would be going to Russia with and he wasn't at all sure that he trusted the short, bearded, fireplug of a man. So he consulted a lawyer and insisted on a contract of employment. Bernie knew the contract might not be enforceable once he got to Russia, but what the hell. He figured it was better than nothing.\n\nBernie went to the national library and looked up Russia. That led him to look up Cossacks and Poland. And it occurred to Bernie that Russia was a very dangerous place. In a way, that made it easier for him to decide to go. The risk, in its way, was as appealing as anything else. Risk was usually coupled with opportunity. In Russia, however it turned out, he might actually be able to do something important. Here, he was just pissing his life away.\n**Chapter 5**\n\nIt was on a cold blustery November morning in 1631 that Bernie, Boris, and some gear loaded onto the small hovercraft that would take them down the frozen Saale River to the Elbe. The hovercraft would have to make three trips to get their gear and the rest of the party to the Elbe. And each trip would take a day.\n\nFour days later Boris had hired a barge and a small company of guards to take them down the Elbe to Hamburg. Germany was still a war zone, after all. He had also made arrangements with an innkeeper in Barby on the Elbe to forward mail going each way to Grantville and Hamburg. Boris was setting up a secure mail route from Grantville to Moscow and back. From Barby it was two weeks to Hamburg. In Hamburg, Boris renewed his acquaintance with a merchant who had been sending broadsheets from Hamburg to Moscow for years. And informed him that if things worked out he would be shipping a lot more both ways and his recompense would likewise increase. From Hamburg to L\u00fcbeck was two and a half freezing, wet days in wagons. And Bernie was seriously wishing he had never agreed to come.\n\nThe Baltic coaster that carried them from L\u00fcbeck to the Swedish stronghold of Nyenschantz, near what in the original timeline would have become St. Petersburg, was, if anything, less comfortable and more crowded than the wagons. They didn't actually visit Nyenschantz. Boris was in no hurry to bring Bernie's presence to the attention of the Swedes. Instead, they stopped at an inn in the town of Nyen, across the river from the stronghold. Boris sent a courier on ahead while he organized the sleigh trip to Moscow.\n**Part Two**\n\n**_The year 1632_**\n**Chapter 6**\n\n**_January 1632_**\n\n\"Home,\" Boris sighed, then waved at the red brick walls of the Kremlin that stood sixty feet tall and dominated the mostly wooden city of Moscow.\n\nBernie Zeppi, after the long trip, didn't care if it was home or not and certainly didn't care about the view. He just wanted in out of the cold. The Russian winter had stopped both Napoleon and Hitler in Bernie's old timeline. In the new one, in the middle of the Little Ice Age, it had almost killed Bernie. He looked out from not-quite-frozen eyeballs under completely-frozen eyebrows, at a snow-covered town. A big town, granted, but it was made of log cabins, not the concrete buildings Bernie remembered from pictures of twentieth-century Russia. What surprised Bernie was that the log-cabin Moscow that was before him looked even dirtier and less inviting than the concrete monstrosities of the Soviet Union looked in the pictures he'd seen. \"Where do we go first?\"\n\nBoris pointed toward a street. \"My townhouse first, then I must make a report and get instructions.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBoris burst into the house roaring something in Russian. Bernie thought it might be \"I'm home\" or \"we're here\" or something like that. But Bernie's Russian was still very poor. A short plump woman responded with \" _Da_ something,\" in a tone that said she was less than impressed. Boris deflated and gave the woman a kiss on the cheek.\n\nBernie, not understanding what was going on, looked around. It was a moderate-sized room with a few very small windows. One corner had several of the religious paintings that were called icons, and the other had about the biggest stove he'd ever seen.\n\nThen Bernie was introduced to Mrs. Boris whose name turned out to be Mariya. There was more Russian, including the words \"Natalia Gorchakovna,\" which Bernie knew was the name of Vladimir's sister. So Boris was probably telling Mrs. Boris about the plans. Bernie was to stay with Boris and his family for the next day or so while introductions were to be made.\n\nMariya spoke a little English with the weird Russian-Shakespeare combination accent that Boris and Vladimir had, but even stronger on the Russian part. Even that little was more than Bernie was expecting. There were, it turned out, English merchants living in Moscow and in other places in Russia. Also English mercenaries hired to modernize the Russian army. At least, that was the impression Bernie got from Mariya's accented comments. Honestly, most of it flowed by him without delivering much in the way of meaning.\n\nThey got him seated, then switched to Russian while Bernie sat and thawed a bit.\n\n* * *\n\nBoris looked at Mariya, feasting his eyes. \"Vasilii said I was to report directly to the patriarch. Otherwise I would have taken the outlander to the Gorchakov townhouse. Vladimir, I wrote you about him, has arranged for his sister to house him rather than putting him up with the other outlanders.\"\n\n\"Is that wise?\" Mariya asked as a servant busied himself at the stove. \"The bureaus are in an uproar.\" At Boris' curious look, she explained. \"They didn't want to believe that the miracle was real. They especially didn't want to believe that God would leave us on our own in the Time of Troubles, __ then give the Germanies a miracle in their need. The monasteries especially disliked that part.\" Then she snorted a laugh. \"I wasn't pleased by the implications myself. Even with the letters and books you sent. It seemed, still seems, as though God cares more for Germany than Russia. So there are factions that were arguing that it was a fraud right up until Vasilii arrived to say you were on your way. Some still are.\"\n\nBoris shook his head. \"I didn't want to believe it either, but after the reports we've sent, I would have thought\u2014\" At his wife's look, he hesitated. \"I guess it is an unbelievable story. But you can't not believe after you've seen the glass-smooth cliffs of the ring wall.\"\n\n\"Is it really that special?\" Mariya sounded a bit wistful. Unlike Boris, she had never been out of Russia. \"I got your letters but . . .\"\n\n\"Yes and no.\" Boris tilted his hand back and forth. \"In some ways it is the most miraculous thing you could imagine and in others quite mundane.\" He shook his head. \"Enough of that for now. I will tell you all about it later. Now I need to know what is going on in the bureaus.\" So they discussed the different factions that were shifting around the miracle in Germany. The fraud faction, the work of the devil faction, the God's will faction. Which bureau chiefs were leaning which way. How the great families were lining up. The most common reaction was \"wait and see,\" then \"how can my family benefit or be harmed,\" followed closely by \"how will it affect my bureau?\" All of which was flavored with the question: What's wrong with us that God would leave us to cold harsh winter and give the Ring of Fire to the Germanies?\n\n\"From what I hear\u2014\" Mariya lifted the pot of water. \"\u2014the czar wants to see the outlander as soon as he can but the bureaus want a chance to talk to your Bernie first so they can formulate policy. They have managed to fill the czar's schedule for the next week or so to give them a chance to do so.\"\n\n\"And the patriarch?\" Boris asked.\n\n\"The czar's father has made no public statements and he's even been quite reticent in private, at least according to rumor. I imagine that's part of the reason you're to report to him.\"\n**Chapter 7**\n\nHalf an hour into the conversation with the patriarch, Boris felt wrung out. Patriarch Filaret apparently remembered every fact he'd read about Grantville, not to mention every bit of the history he'd read. They'd already been through the butterfly effect and every bit of Boris' knowledge of the spies in Grantville. Now, Filaret changed the subject.\n\n\"So, this Bernie Zeppi, he has come to work for us?\"\n\n\"Ah . . . not quite.\" Boris twitched in his seat. \"In fact, he has come to work for Prince Vladimir. Who has paid\u2014and is paying\u2014his salary, so far. And there is a personal contract.\" Boris produced the contract for the patriarch's perusal. Filaret took it and read through it rapidly. Several times during the reading he gave Boris sharp looks.\n\nHis brow creased. \"A rather large salary. Do you feel it will be worth it?\"\n\nBoris was surprised at the choice of first question. By custom, outlanders were always hired to work for the czar, not members of the court or the bureaus. \"I can't say for certain. The up-time knowledge is worth a thousand times that salary. Patriarch . . .\" He paused. \"They could fly up-time. I have seen the movies, heard the stories\u2014they could fly. And I have no doubt they will again, if they survive another five or ten years.\"\n\n* * *\n\nFilaret leaned back in his chair. This was the reason he'd called for Boris Petrov to see him. He wanted to hear, first hand. \"Yet they don't fly now. None of the machines, the airplanes, was it? None came with them.\"\n\nBoris nodded. \"True. It was a poor village of peasants that was sent back to us. Yet even there they have miracles in every art and philosophy and in things we had not even dreamed of. Undreamed of wealth, Patriarch. The products of mass production, they call it. Everything identical, made by machines. If we can make the machines, we should be able to do the same.\"\n\nFilaret raised an eyebrow. \"Yet you say you're not sure?\"\n\nBoris sighed. \"You know the problems with hiring outlander experts. If they were really experts they would be getting rich where they were. What we get are the less adept or the ones no one is willing to hire for some reason. We have seen that, time after time.\"\n\n\"Your outlander is a mal-adept?\"\n\n\"You must remember that there were only around three thousand people brought back in the Ring of Fire. That includes babes still at their mothers' breast and those so . . . sick that they could not survive without constant intervention from their medical practitioners.\"\n\nBoris had, Filaret was sure, almost said \"so old\" but caught himself in time. Filaret hid a smile. He was over eighty and Boris was afraid to offend.\n\n\"By their standards,\" Boris continued, \"it was not a particularly educated group. Most adults had high school diplomas . . . never mind. The point is that anyone who had much in the way of special skills or unusual talent was already employed by their government, or getting rich right there in Grantville, or both.\n\n\"Bernie is friendly, willing, and doesn't lie about his abilities. That, above all else, Vladimir insisted on and I agreed. We have had too many master cannon makers who were more familiar with gold than bronze.\"\n\nBoris paused and Filaret considered. Boris was good at his job and Vladimir was clever. He didn't think that Vladimir was planning anything against the czar, partly because Vladimir was a good lad and a friend of the family, but mostly because he was staying in Grantville. Manipulating court politics from such a distance was almost impossible. Not entirely impossible; Filaret had done it from imprisonment in Poland. But that was a special case and hadn't worked out the way he had wanted. At the same time, Filaret realized that Vladimir was beginning to play politics, albeit at a remove. This project was to be the Gorchakovs' entrance into the ranks of the high families and Filaret thought he could use that. There was a great deal of tension in the _Boyar Duma_ , in part because of the Ring of Fire and the general uncertainty of what it might mean, but also because the word from Grantville had weakened the war faction and given hope to the Polish-lovers like his own cousin, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev.\n\nBy this time Filaret had almost decided to approve the project, but he had a few more questions.\n\n\"Then\u2014\" Filaret leaned forward with his fingertips steepled. \"\u2014if he is so unskilled, what is he doing here? And why did Vladimir hire him into the Gorchakov family's service instead of the czar's? Why agree to pay him so much?\" He motioned toward the contract. \"This is what we would pay for a colonel of artillery.\"\n\n\"His salary is the least of the expense of this project,\" Boris admitted. This was one of the most important parts of the plan. \"Vladimir had an idea. He will be having copies made of the books in Grantville. They will be sent here. But they are only copies, Patriarch, not translations. Not even Latin translations, much less Russian. He doesn't have the staff, or the cash on hand, to pay to have it done and the time it would take would put us years behind. The books will have to be translated here or our experts must learn up-timer English.\"\n\n\"I still don't understand what we need this outlander for. Not that I object to his presence. The czar has been anxious to meet an outlander from this miracle and I am curious myself. That, however, doesn't justify this salary or this change in our traditional ways.\" The patriarch waved a hand at the contract again. \"Contracts like this . . . well, I suppose I can understand the idea. But it's not the way we have done things and I don't like the precedent it sets.\"\n\n\"I speak the English of England in this century quite well,\" Boris said. \"The American English of the end of the twentieth century is full of words that I don't even have the concepts for. What is an electromagnetic field?\" Boris used Russian for field and English for electromagnetic.\n\nAt Filaret's look, he answered his own question, sort of. \"Had someone asked me that before I went to Grantville, I would have had no idea what they were talking about. Even if I had looked up electromagnetic in a dictionary from Grantville, I would still have thought it a nonsense phrase. The dictionary would tell me that 'electromagnetic' is the adjective form of the word 'electromagnetism' which is magnetism caused by an electrical current, which is useful to know. But the real trouble comes with 'field,' because the field they are talking about has nothing to do with plowing or reaping nor with grain or grass or battles or the flags and ensigns carried into battle. It's the area where the electromagnetism is, which I didn't find out because though I didn't know the meaning of electromagnetism, I did know the meaning of field.\n\n\"When I asked Bernie what an electromagnetic field was. He told me 'it's what makes electric motors work and I'd have to look it up if you want to know more.' I explained that I had looked up electromagnetic and it had not helped much. We discussed it for a while till it came about that Bernie's definition of field contained several more meanings than mine did. Between us we worked out roughly how an electric motor works and how the changing of the electromagnetic field is crucial to its working. I understand it a little, but it feels profoundly unnatural to me, like the incantations of magic might feel.\"\n\n\"Could it be magic?\" Filaret asked.\n\n\"No, Patriarch.\" Boris shook his head, trying to put into that gesture all the certainty that he had gained in his time in Grantville. \"It feels like magic because it is so different from the way we are used to thinking. There are no demons running their machines and if an electromagnetic field is an unseen force, it carries no motive, no will. It is an effect like water turning a waterwheel. Not magic, just craftsmanship and great knowledge.\"\n\n\"Very well. So this Bernie will tell us what the words from the future mean. What about the contract?\"\n\n\"Bernie insisted on it, Patriarch. I think he was a bit afraid that once we got him here we'd lock him in a dungeon and use whips and tongs to get him to work.\"\n\n\"Certainly an option worth considering,\" Filaret said, and Boris knew very well that the patriarch wasn't joking. Not even a little bit.\n\nBoris nodded. \"Hence the contract and a share of the money to be paid into an account in Grantville. The contract helps assuage his fears and the fact that we have to send some of the money to Grantville anyway helps even more. We need him enough to make it worthwhile to pamper him a bit before we attempt harsher methods.\n\n\"It's hard to explain unless you have seen what they can do and how freely they give out their knowledge. Prince Vladimir is convinced that if we don't have someone like Bernie, if we don't gain this knowledge and do it now while the door is opened\u2014\" He paused and took a deep breath. \"Russia, without the knowledge\u2014the up-time knowledge\u2014facing a Europe with that knowledge, will not survive more than a few decades.\"\n\n\"Why is Vladimir paying for this?\" The patriarch was nodding. Good, Boris thought. He understood why Bernie was needed.\n\n\"He wants to set up a think tank.\" Boris spoke entirely in Russian but the concept didn't translate well.\n\nBoris tried again at Filaret's expression of annoyance. \"A gathering of minds, also a research center. A place where concepts and devices from the books and notes he is sending can be tried. Tests can be done to see what will and will not work. A place where the knowledge from the future can be combined with the talents of Russians to make both the things he sends us designs for and new designs of our own.\"\n\nThe patriarch nodded, his mind jumping ahead of Boris' explanation. \"Where?\"\n\n\"The Gorchakov family has a large and comfortable dacha and hunting park a day's ride from Moscow. Close enough to Moscow for convenience, yet far enough away so that it can be kept fairly private. He promises not only its use but money for the materials needed for the experimentation. Some thousands of rubles a year.\"\n\n\"That explains what he wants to do, Boris Ivanovich Petrov. It does not explain why the contract with this Bernard Zeppi is with Vladimir Petrovich Gorchakov, not Mikhail Fedorivich Romanov, Czar of all Russia.\"\n\n\"Vladimir is willing to commit the Gorchakov family to the primary funding of the project.\"\n\n\"And he wants what in exchange?\"\n\n\"The exclusive rights to produce and sell the products of the dacha.\" This was common. One family might have exclusive rights to mine iron ore in a certain area, rights they had purchased from the government. Another might have exclusive rights to sell the furs of another area. Filaret was hardly a novice when it came to that type of negotiation.\n\n\"No, that won't work,\" Filaret said. \"The Gorchakov family is rich but not that rich.\"\n\n\"He plans to sell the rights to produce individual products,\" Boris explained. \"The research center will make a working model of, say, a reaping machine, and designs for the parts to it, then sell the rights to make the reaping machines to another clan or to a set of villages.\"\n\nThe patriarch nodded and considered. \"Exclusive except for the government. I'll not have the government giving the Gorchakov family the rights, then paying for the research as well.\" That too was standard. The government of Russia maintained first call on everything. If a family gained exclusive control of a mine, what that family got was what came out of the mine beyond the government's share.\n\n\"Of course, Patriarch.\" Boris nodded. As each new device was made both the government and the Gorchakov family would have the right to produce it if they chose. In the case of the reaping machine, the government would be able to either make reaping machines itself or have them made; so would the Gorchakov family. The Gorchakov family might want to sell its rights to make the product but that would not affect the government's rights. \"Of course, the research center will need experts from some of the bureaus.\"\n\nFilaret nodded thoughtfully. \"That can be arranged. And the church?\"\n\n\"Vladimir would prefer not to make an open grant to the church.\" Boris' answer was delicate. \"There have been abuses of such grants in the past. I am very much afraid the bureaus would not like such a blanket grant either.\" The Russian Orthodox Church was neither monolithic nor free from corruption. Monasteries vied for power and wealth with the great families and each other.\n\nThe patriarch grinned rather sardonically and nodded. \"The patriarch's office, then.\" He laughed at Boris' expression. \"Not even that?\"\n\nBoris steeled himself. \"Who will be the next patriarch?\"\n\nFilaret nodded, but lost his smile.\n\n\"Vladimir did wish me to convey his warmest personal regards to you, Patriarch Filaret. His concern, and frankly mine, is that the next patriarch may not share your concern for the czar or for Holy Rus. Do you remember mention of Patriarch Nikon from the histories we sent?\" Boris really wished he could avoid this part of the conversation. He was used to bureaucratic infighting but not at this level.\n\nFilaret grimaced but nodded. \"However, I am patriarch now.\"\n\n\"As long as that happy situation remains, the patriarch's office will receive anything the dacha can provide.\"\n\nFilaret's fingers made a drum roll on the desk as he thought about it. \"It is a great risk for young Vladimir. He could ruin his family if it doesn't work.\" Then he stared at Boris. \"What about you, Boris? What do you gain in this? What do you risk?\"\n\n\"It has been suggested that I would make an excellent candidate for the head of the Grantville section of the embassy bureau.\" He shrugged. \"That is both the reward and the risk. If it doesn't work, well, my position in the bureau would become untenable.\"\n\n\"Yes, it would.\" Another pause while the patriarch's fingers continued to tap out a strange beat on the desk. \"Very well. I will talk to Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, then. I'll even do what I can to get the appropriate people assigned to your section and loaned to the Gorchakov dacha.\"\n\nHe gave Boris a hard look, his eyes seeming to glitter for a moment. \"You understand what you're risking?\"\n\n\"I think so, Patriarch.\"\n**Chapter 8**\n\nBernie had a private letter from Vladimir to his sister Natasha, whose legal name was Natalia. Vladimir hadn't made a big deal of it, but Bernie had the impression that Vladimir would prefer that Boris didn't know about the private letter. So Bernie waited while Boris sent a message to warn the great lady that Boris was bringing a barbarian to be examined and to put mats down on the floor in case the strange creature should decide to take a dump on it. At least that was Bernie's impression of Boris' attitude. It was hard to tell what the little guy thought.\n\nAs promised, Boris delivered Bernie the next day. They were ushered in by an armed retainer who looked a warning at Bernie and left them in a warm, well lit room with a great big stonework heater. In the room was a tall, willow-thin woman with long, black hair and snow-white makeup and red-painted lips. Boris went ahead and kissed her on the cheek as was the custom. She had to lean down to accept the kiss and suddenly they looked to Bernie like nothing so much as Boris and Natasha from the Bullwinkle cartoons.\n\nBoris and Natasha looked like Boris and Natasha. Bernie cracked up. He couldn't help it. He had been nervous all morning after the lecture Mrs. Petrov had given him on how important the Gorchakov family was. And suddenly it was like he was in a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon. He cracked up. He almost had himself under control when \"Where's Bullwinkle?\" slipped out. He lost it again.\n\nThings were getting tense by the time Bernie really got himself under control. \"I'm sorry. I'm away from home and nervous about the new job. It was just that you two right then happened to look like Boris and Natasha.\"\n\nNow the princess was looking confused again. \"But we are,\" she said with a distinctly Slavic accent. \"He's Boris and I'm called Natasha.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Bernie shook his head. \"I think that's what really did it. Not like you, Boris and Natasha; like the cartoon Boris and Natasha. Natasha was tall and slinky, ah, beautiful with a very pale face and red lips, Boris was short and stocky. They were spies.\" Another giggle. \"Spies who were constantly trying to blow up Rocky the Flying Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose. I used to watch it on Nickelodeon when I was a kid.\"\n\n\"What is a cartoon?\" Princess Natasha was apparently much mollified by the notion that this other Natasha was beautiful. Bernie was less confident of her reaction to slinky, though you never knew.\n\n\"It's a simple drawing,\" Bernie tried to explain.\n\n\"Something like an icon but without the religious significance,\" Boris clarified.\n\n\"Except the ones with Boris and Natasha moved.\"\n\n\"Moved how?\" Natasha's forehead creased under the makeup. \"Did they shake the paper?\"\n\nWhich led to a discussion of moving pictures in general and how they were made. By the end of this discussion, Natasha was too interested to be offended.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Now I see how it works.\" Natasha saw something else too. This was why they needed Bernie Zeppi and why they should turn the dacha into a research center. He had not come here to introduce moving icons on a screen. It had just popped out like a chicken laying an egg. He cackled a bit and there it was. How many other eggs were buried in this stranger from the future and how valuable would they be to the family? Natasha had seen mimes and clowns perform. In spite of his comments, she knew that the movies and cartoons didn't need sound to attract an audience. She was pleased again when, while Boris was talking to her Aunt Sofia, Bernie managed to pass her a letter \"from your brother.\" Then he had gone on about Rocky and Bullwinkle blundering along and thwarting Boris and Natasha while Bullwinkle at least didn't have a clue what was going on.\n\nOver all, Natasha was quite impressed with Vladimir's up-timer, as were some of the other people Boris introduced him to over the next week.\n**Chapter 9**\n\n\"I think we can use him,\" General Kabanov said. He was in charge of guns and weapons for the _Streltzi,_ the musketeers who served Russian cities as guardsmen as well as providing much of the army's infantry. \"He does seem to know a great deal about guns and their use.\"\n\nBernie had just finished disassembling and reassembling his up-time rifle and then loading it and emptying it into a set of targets. Boris nodded in response to the general's assessment. He saw no need to point out that Bernie's familiarity with the rifle was not particularly unusual among up-timers. Grantville was a town of hunters.\n\n\"Why can't we make these repeating rifles?\" General Kabanov asked Bernie. But he didn't speak English, much less up-timer English, so questions were funneled through Boris. Which was probably for the best, as it allowed him to edit at need.\n\n\"Primers,\" Bernie said. \"You can't make the primers. We went over all this in Grantville.\"\n\n\"In the brass cartridges,\" Boris translated, \"are compounds of a chemical that is difficult and expensive to make in quantity\u2014\"\n\nSo it went. It was the third interview that day and there were three more to go and still more tomorrow.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Why did you have to bring us an idiot?\" Filip Pavlovich Tupikov was pacing back and forth, scratching furiously at a rather weak beard. \"They know how to fly. They can make materials we never dreamed of. And you bring us this? Not a doctor, not a . . . what is the word? Engineer. Not an engineer. Instead you bring us this . . . this . . . barely a craftsman. Why, Boris Ivanovich?\"\n\nBoris Ivanovich looked at Filip Pavlovich. The man was a brilliant artisan and a skilled natural philosopher, but had no understanding of how the world worked. Besides, Boris had been getting some version of this from about half the interviewers for the last two weeks. \"Ah, how foolish of me.\" Boris snorted. \"I should, no doubt, have asked their president, Mike Stearns, to give up all he had in Grantville and come be a servant in Russia. Or perhaps the master of machining, Ollie Reardon, would have given up his factory with its machines and the electric to run them. Better yet, I could have tried to persuade Melissa Mailey, a qualified teacher in their high school. Of course, she has been heard to say\u2014more than once, I should point out\u2014that they should start by executing nine out of ten of the nobility of Europe. She then suggests that they go up from there. I'm sure she would have been happy to serve the czar.\"\n\nFilip Pavlovich flinched a bit. Boris felt he'd gotten his point across. \"I brought Bernie Zeppi because he was who I could get. He has graduated their high school. He is a qualified auto mechanic with tools. I should know. I had to arrange for their transport. He speaks, reads and writes their up-timer English. English which is not so similar to the English we know as Polish is to Russian. You can get by with practice but the words have changed their meaning and pronunciation as often as not. Believe me, Filip Pavlovich, there are people I could have recruited that you would have liked much less.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBernie sighed. \"When is this sh . . . ah . . . stuff going to be done with? Let me get to work, will you?\" Bernie wasn't all that anxious to get to work, just to get out of Moscow and away from the interviews.\n\n\"Soon, Bernie, soon,\" Boris said. \"We have the audience today. Princess Natalia will be down soon and we will leave.\"\n\n\"The makeup again?\" Bernie chuckled.\n\nBoris glared at Bernie, remembering the silly business about Boris and Natasha. \"I trust you will be able to control your sense of humor.\"\n\n\"Wish she'd hurry up.\" Bernie's complaint brought Boris back to the present. Then Natasha arrived, walked to Boris and said in a deep sultry voice\u2014not her own\u2014but which Bernie claimed was a fairly good imitation of the cartoon Natasha: \"Welcome, my little Borisky. This time we will capture that naughty moose, yes?\"\n\nBernie grinned and Boris turned red.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie tried to suppress his grin as Boris and Natasha coached him very carefully for his meeting with Mr. Big. Mr. Big, otherwise known as the Czar of All the Russias. Armed with Vladimir's gifts, as well as his own, Bernie followed their instructions carefully.\n\nBoris whispered names and positions while they stood in the line of people waiting to be presented. \"Patriarch Filaret, the czar's father, there to the left of Czar Mikhail. On the right, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, the czar's cousin; he is in charge of the bureau of records. It is an especially powerful post, because he can cause so much trouble for the other bureaus.\" The list of names went on and on. Bernie quit paying that much attention, except for the fact that they all seemed to be related to the czar. Natasha had left them, and gone off to see the czar's wife. When they got a bit closer, Bernie started looking around a bit. Fortunately, he had good eyesight. The room was huge, at least eighty feet long and broad in proportion.\n\nMr. Big\u2014no, that really didn't seem to fit\u2014was a pretty ordinary guy when you got a look at him. The czar looked to be in his mid-thirties. He also looked like he didn't want to be here. Sort of bored and sad. He seemed like the kind of guy who got stuffed in his locker in gym class. The patriarch guy, his father, was really old, but looked to be a tough old bird. And all these . . . _boyars_ , they were called. There was some serious money tied up in their clothes. At the same time there was something a bit tawdry about the whole thing. The cleaning staff hadn't done that good a job on the great hall and most of the fancy outfits needed cleaning\u2014but not as much as the people wearing them.\n\n\"Dmitri Mamstriukovich Cherakasky.\" Boris nodded toward another man. \"Not a man to cross, that one.\" Well, Bernie wasn't going to cross anyone if he could help it. This place was to the period movies Bernie had seen as _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_ was to _Roy Rogers_.\n\nFinally, they got up to the front of the line. Boris did all the talking, which was just as well. Bernie hadn't had much luck figuring out the lingo yet. Boris gave the agreed upon signal and Bernie bowed. \"Your Majesty.\"\n\nMikhail Romanov smiled kindly back at Bernie's attempt to bow. \"Welcome to Moscow.\"\n\nBernie bowed again and Boris made a gesture, so Bernie presented his gifts. Czar Mikhail looked at the watch curiously.\n\n\"It is an up-time 'watch.'\" Boris spoke softly. \"If you will press that button there, it will light up.\"\n\nThe czar, clearly with some trepidation, pressed the button and managed to say \"Very interesting.\"\n\nThey finished the interview, so Bernie and company were ready to leave the next day.\n**Chapter 10**\n\nBernie sat in the sleigh and moped. He should be interested and excited, but he couldn't manage to feel even an echo of such an emotion. It had just hit him again: the Ring of Fire, the people he'd killed at the Battle of the Crapper and his mother's death. He could quit and go home but it wasn't home. Home didn't exist anymore. Bernie wanted a drink. He knew he shouldn't have one but he wanted one.\n\nHe had been drinking a lot less since they started for Russia. Getting out of Grantville had helped, but sometimes it all came back on him. For some unknown reason, today was one of those times. Midwinter this far north had short frigging days. Maybe that had something to do with it. He'd read something about that somewhere.\n\nNatasha looked over at him and grinned. \"We will reach the dacha soon, Bernie.\"\n\nBernie grunted without much enthusiasm. _God, I wish I had my car. I wish I had some gas. I wish . . ._\n\n\"What is wrong, Bernie?\"\n\n\"Nothing you can help with, nothing anyone can help with really. I guess I'm just homesick.\"\n\n\"You wish you could go back? But we have only begun to become acquainted.\"\n\nBernie noted with some amusement that Natasha's vamp routine needed a bit of work. Still it was nice that she was trying to cheer him up. \"No, I don't wish to go back. Not back to Germany anyway. I wish I could go home, back to the world I came from. This world isn't home. Even Grantville isn't home. I used to do all right, you know. I had enough money to do what I wanted, for the most part. I dated, I worked my hours. I had a life.\" _I hadn't killed anyone; I had a mother who was still alive._ \"Now, though, well, it's just not the same, not even in Grantville.\"\n\nBernie looked at the girl. She seemed nice enough and she hadn't gotten pissed at the Boris and Natasha bit. On the other hand, she was Vladimir's sister and Bernie had finally figured out just how rich and powerful Vladimir was after he had gotten to Moscow. This girl was the daughter of a great house. She was pretty, dark-haired and slim. Slimmer than a lot of the Russian women, with black hair that hung down to her waist. She spoke some English. Funny-sounding English, but English. Mostly, though, she was someone to talk to and Bernie was sick of thinking about his troubles.\n\n\"So,\" he said, \"tell me about yourself.\" Natasha looked taken aback by the question and the old lady, Vladimir's Aunt Sofia, cackled a bit. Bernie didn't have a clue why.\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Natasha stopped. \"What do you wish to know?\"\n\n\"Oh . . .\" Bernie hesitated a moment. \"What do you figure on doing with your life? Do you have any plans to become a doctor or lawyer? What's it like in the summer here? Is there summer here? Do you like parties?\" He snorted. \"What's your sign? That's probably too many questions, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" Natasha acknowledged. \"In any case, I didn't understand what all of them meant. I don't know what my sign is. Unless you mean the family crest.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" Bernie scratched his chin. \"Why do all the men wear beards?\"\n\n\"Men wear beards because the church says that it is a mortal sin to shave them. God did not create men beardless, only cats and dogs.\"\n\n\"Not to mention rats and mice,\" Bernie said. \"Goats, though. Goats have beards.\"\n\nAunt Sofia was suppressing laughter. Bernie grinned at the old lady. \"Of course, goats don't shave either.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so.\" Natasha sounded like she was trying not to laugh. \"But I'm not sure the church would like hearing that . . .\" She searched for the word. \"Ah . . . compare?\"\n\n\"Comparison,\" Bernie said. \"Yeah. I've never met a holy roller yet that liked that sort of comparison. I understand the churches down-time have a lot more power. So maybe I should be more careful about what I say.\"\n\n\"What of your faith, Bernie?\"\n\n\"Mom was a Methodist, a Protestant I guess you'd call it, and Dad a Catholic, though neither one of them were big church goers. Me, I guess I was an agnostic before the Ring of Fire.\"\n\n\"Agnostic?\"\n\n\"Someone who doesn't know,\" Bernie said. \"Maybe there's a God or maybe not. If there is a god maybe it cares about people and maybe not. After the Ring of Fire . . . well, something had to do that. Which still leaves me wondering about what it wants, whatever it is.\"\n\nThat statement seemed to set both Natasha and Sofia back on their heels. Which wasn't an unusual reaction. Bernie had had his face shoved in the fact that most people down-time were members of a church whether they wanted to be or not. There was no Madelyn Nutcase O'Hare down-time screaming about atheist rights. And considering what the holy rollers got up to without such people, maybe O'Hare wasn't that much of a nut case after all. \"Like I say, someone or something took a six-mile diameter chunk of rock, earth, water, and air, animals, people, machines and books and shifted all of us three hundred sixty-nine years into the past and halfway around the world in a flash of light. I know that there's someone or something that can do that and if it ain't a god, it's close enough for me. On the other hand, whatever it is didn't appear to have much concern for what it was doing to my mom by taking her into the past and leaving the medicines that were keeping her alive in the future. So, yes, I'm convinced there's a god. That God is good and caring, not so much.\" Bernie ran down and realized he had probably said way too much. _I'm not here to fix their culture or update their religion_ , he reminded himself. It was time for a change of subject. \"So what do you do?\"\n\n\"Do?\" Natasha asked. \"Ah . . . I take care of the family properties while Vladimir is away. Someone must.\"\n\nAs the sleigh carried Bernie, Natasha and Aunt Sofia to the dacha they talked about the roles of women in the future America where Bernie came from and the role of women in Russia. Natasha was clearly shocked at the options open to women in that future. Sofia was more curious and cautious.\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha found herself both shocked and intrigued by the up-timer's lack of concern for her rank and station. It wasn't so much that he ignored her rank. Instead, he treated it like some local fantasy that he paid polite lip-service to. In a very real sense, it seemed to Natasha that Bernie did not see himself as outranked by any man. Perhaps not even by God. And that was a truly frightening, and oddly exciting, thought.\n**Chapter 11**\n\n**_February 1632_**\n\nBernie moved in and settled. It took several days to get his stuff and the other gear that Vladimir had sent. They were also putting together a load of goods to go the other way. Boris wanted to make one more trip to Grantville to make sure the path he'd set up was in good working order both for mail and for goods. That had little to do with Bernie, which he was perfectly happy with. He'd already run into one mine field and didn't want another. It turned out Natasha was very interested in women's rights, a subject that Bernie had only a vague knowledge about. In order to hold off her questions a bit he had said, \"Look, Natasha, I didn't mean to have you burn your bra in Red Square. It's just the way things were up-time.\"\n\nNatasha, being Natasha, had come right back with, \"What is a bra and why would I want to burn it?\"\n\nWhile Bernie was more than willing to talk about bras and their disposal with servant girls, it wasn't a place to go with the boss. Which, it had turned out, Natasha was, in fact if not in title. Especially when she had a whole retinue of men at arms who gave Bernie hard looks any time he got within twenty feet of her.\n\nTalking to noble ladies about their undergarments was definitely chancy territory. Bernie got his revenge in a way by directing her to a barmaid who could answer her questions. Brandy Bates was a friend of his who worked at Club 250, where Bernie had drunk until the Gardens got its own building. Bernie talked her up a bit because it seemed like a good idea. Brandy had dropped out of high school before getting her diploma but Bernie figured he could get away with claiming she had a G.E.D., even though she'd never gotten that either. Who knew? Maybe the barmaid had something to teach the princess.\n\nBesides, the truth was that Bernie didn't like the way the peasants were treated here and now. Bernie didn't think it had been near this bad in Germany. He had to remind himself quite often that he wasn't here to fix the soul of Russia, just the plumbing. He didn't like it but he kept his mouth shut. So let the princess learn about bras from the barmaid. Maybe she'd learn something else as well.\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha was at her desk, at last. There were several letters to write. She, as was her nature, started with the hardest.\n\n_To the Up-timer Citizen of Grantville, United States of America, Miss Brandy Bates,_\n\n_I make free to write to you at the suggestion of your fellow up-timer, Bernard Zeppi. I hope that this missive finds you in the best of good health._\n\nNatasha hated this part. She was a regular correspondent with several women of Russia and even a few men. But writing to someone new was always a challenge, especially someone from a foreign country. Worse, in this case, because the up-timers probably thought of everyone from this century as barbarians. But she really did need an answer to this question.\n\n_Let me apologize if I have failed to include the titles appropriate to your station. It is not with the intent of insult but from simple ignorance. Goodman Zeppi informs me that you are a woman of great accomplishment and considerable status among the up-timers. Also that you are of good family and possessed of a G.E.D._\n\n_I gather that the G.E.D. is a title? But I confess my ignorance in how it is to be applied to a salutation. Mr. Zeppi professes ignorance of your other titles, not being a student of heraldry._\n\n_I fear this may be a delicate matter to broach on first acquaintance, but what is a bra and why should one burn it in the grand market square?_\n\nNatasha filled in the context of the discussion then added her signature. _Princess Natalia Petrovna Gorchakovna_\n\nNatasha knew she should be saying more, introducing herself more clearly, but she was uncertain of what degree of formality she should use in writing to an unknown up-timer. She set the letter aside and started working on the next. It would go to Vladimir, and would discuss the Grantville Section of the embassy bureau and the agreements reached between the family and the government.\n**Chapter 12**\n\n\"We can't do it,\" Andrei Korisov said with disgust. \"You don't understand what we have to deal with. Less than half the service nobility can read, and just one person in three hundred is of the service nobility. Even with the occasional priest and overeducated _Streltzi_ , less than one person in a hundred can read, even in the cities and large towns. In the countryside, probably less than one in a thousand.\" He paused, allowing the translator to catch up, before adding: \"This is not Germany. It's not even Poland.\"\n\nBernie listened with a certain amount of irritation. Not only because having a translator was a pain in the rear, but because Korisov was a generally irritating guy. He was very good at his job and more. The man was a master gunsmith who had taught himself to read and calculate ballistics. Through skill and hard work he had moved from the _Streltzi_ to the service nobility. Not an easy thing to do in Russia, Bernie had already learned. Still, Korisov's contempt for the average Russian was irritating to Bernie, and he wasn't even Russian.\n\nMeanwhile, Natasha spoke up. \"Why isn't it possible, Andrei Korisov?\"\n\n\"Because they're too complicated. No, it's not simply that. It's a combination of things. I could build a rifle like the American's by hand. It would take me about a month and it wouldn't be as good as his Remington model 7400, but it would work and it would fire a .30-06 round, if we had some to put in it. Then I could build another, and it would take me about a month again. And ten years from now, after Poland had invaded and taken Moscow, I would have made about one hundred and twenty rifles.\"\n\nNatasha just looked at him and Andrei blushed, then continued. \"I'm sorry, Princess. But it's hard to explain. To make rifles like Bernie's, in any number, we need so many tools that we don't have that I can't even imagine them all. Most Russians are still spending all their time growing food.\"\n\nAt this point, Bernie took up the argument. \"It's the 'tools to build the tools' problem, Natasha. We had the same problem in Germany, although apparently not as severely. Up-time we could do incredibly complex things, precisely the same way, time after time, very quickly by using a variety of machines, each of which did one simple thing. But to get there, you have to build a lot of machines. I think Russia can get there, and that's what your brother hired me to do, help you get there. But it's not going to be fast. And from what I've been hearing about the political situation, it's not going to be in time to help you at all with Poland.\"\n\n\"Well, can't you build the machines you need to build the rifles quickly?\" Natasha asked.\n\n\"We don't even know what most of those machines are, much less how to build them,\" Andrei Korisov said dejectedly.\n\nNatasha nodded and switched to English. \"Very well. Bernie, I want you to get together with Andrei, and try to figure out something that we _can_ make. Something that will only take a few machines.\" They had their marching orders, and if Bernie didn't like them much, it was pretty clear that they didn't thrill Andrei either.\n\nNatasha looked around the table, then switched back to Russian. \"Now, what's next, gentlemen?\"\n\n\"I have made a battery,\" Lazar Smirnov said. \"However, coils will take longer and I'm just beginning to study the theory of radio. It will be a while, Princess.\"\n\nAfter this, the people at the table began to discuss other projects. The Fresno scrapers were ready to test, but the ground was still frozen, so that project had to wait. They also had a plow, but again, they would have to wait for the spring thaw.\n\nFilip said, \"I understand the steam engines. The principles behind them make sense. I'm not sure of their practicality because of the amount of work involved in producing even one.\"\n\nFilip was the translator, so Bernie interrupted him. \"They're worth it. Believe me, engines are worth it. I'm not a big fan of steam, but limiting yourself to muscle power is the wrong way to go.\"\n\n\"It's not that I doubt you, Bernie,\" Filip said, \"but we're back to the tools to build the tools problem. We don't know how much power we'll get and they are going to be built by hand like Andrei's handmade Remington that he is even now building for the czar. Granted, we don't have to make bullets to go in it, but we do have to make boilers and, well, we're a long way from anything useful.\" He turned to Princess Natasha. \"We'll keep working on it, but don't expect much progress soon, Princess.\"\n\n\"The aspirin is not a problem,\" said the apothecary, Anatoly Fedorov. \"But the antibiotics are well beyond us. Certainly we'll try for penicillin, but don't expect much. We don't even know what mold it comes from, much less how to process it to get the effect we want.\"\n\nNikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky, who was there by grace of being one of Natasha's most trusted armsmen, spoke up with a smile in his voice, clearly trying to lighten the mood. \"Bernie has been teaching us about up-time football, which is played with a ball that is not round, and strategy games. So at least we'll have an amusing winter, Princess.\"\n\nThe princess gave him a quelling look, but Nick wasn't noticeably quelled and Natasha turned back to the table. \"What about aircraft?\" Natalia asked, but Bernie was shaking his head before she'd even finished the question.\n\n\"Not without some pretty powerful engines,\" he said. \"And I don't know anything about aerodynamics. Nor is there anything in the books we brought with us.\"\n\nThe meeting went on for a couple of hours, a disheartening mix of \"not yet\" and \"it can't be done,\" with only a sprinkle of things they could do.\n\nDisheartening, yes. But not that disheartening. It was early days yet and they all knew it.\n**Chapter 13**\n\n**_March 1632_**\n\nVladimir took one look at Boris and knew he had made a rough, fast trip back. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I want to get done here and get back to Moscow as quickly as possible. How is the network progressing?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. It seems to me to be working fairly well. The number of spies, artists and philosophers that are living or visiting here seems to grow every day. Trotsky is starting to see spies under his bed.\"\n\n\"I doubt anyone cares what happens in Trotsky's bed, even his wife,\" Boris said. \"Still he knows his business.\"\n\n\"Oh, there are spies enough.\" Vladimir agreed. \"However for the most part they don't seem to care about us.\" He shook his head, caught between laughter and embarrassment. \"What few attempts we've had to penetrate our network have been clumsy. Almost as though they didn't really care what we were doing but were too polite to simply ignore us. The Spanish and the Austrians want to know what the Swedes are doing here and the Swedes want to know what the Hapsburgs are doing here. The French want to know what the Catholics, and, well, everyone is doing here. The Italians want to know what the other Italians and the Spanish are doing here. The closest thing to a real attempt to subvert me has been an offer by a group of merchants and agents to go in together in the copying of the Encyclopedia Americana 1963 and such other books and periodicals as we can agree on. I accepted, of course. They were already doing it and were simply looking for more subscribers to defray expenses.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWhen Brandy Bates received the letter from Natasha Gorchakova she was on her day off and getting ready to go to a play with her mom at the high school.\n\nHer mom answered the door and the first thing Brandy heard was, \"You have a letter for Brandy from who?\"\n\n\"Who is it, Mom?\" Brandy asked as she came into the living room to see a tall, dark-haired man with deep blue eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard.\n\n\"I'm _Kniaz_ Vladimir Gorchakov,\" he said. \"The letter is from my sister.\"\n\nBrandy wasn't a true adherent of the philosophy of Club 250, but she had taken in enough of the attitude while working there that she wasn't the least bit awed by the title or the fancy clothes. Well, maybe the least bit. But she responded by being just a bit snooty herself. \"And why is your sister writing to me?\"\n\n\"Apparently Bernie Zeppi recommended you as a correspondent,\" the guy said.\n\nBernie had gotten a job in Poland or Russia or someplace like that. The pay was supposed to have been pretty good and Mom was giving her the \"you behave\" look. Oh, what the hell. She could at least read the letter. \"Well, if Bernie suggested it at least it's not out of the blue.\" Brandy held out her hand and with clear reluctance the guy handed her the letter.\n\nMom asked him to have a seat as Brandy examined the letter. It was folded over with a wax blob holding it closed and the wax had been imprinted with a crest.\n\nBrandy shrugged, popped the seal and looked at the letter. The handwriting was good but with way too many flourishes. Working through the letter she got to the part about burning bras in the market square and burst into laughter.\n\nBoth Mom and the guy were looking at her with curiosity clear on their faces. Brandy handed the letter to her mother and smiled. \"For once Bernie did the right thing. This is not a matter for men of any rank.\"\n\nThe guy turned a little pink and her mom, who was struggling though the letter, started laughing too.\n\nAll in all, though she wouldn't know it for months, Brandy had managed by accident to make a fairly good first impression on Vladimir.\n\nIn the meantime, after they had said goodbye to _Kniaz_ Vladimir Gorchakov and seen the play, Brandy was left with the letter. Its very sparseness made it clear that this Natalia Whosis didn't know what or how much she could ask without giving offense. So Brandy put together a female care package. 1995 _Victoria's Secret_ , a 1993 _Glamour_ , 1997 _Vogue_ , a _Better Homes and Gardens_ plus cold cream, nail polish, eye shadow, and a pair of the stretchy one-size-fits-all pantyhose, with instructions. Brandy considered sending an actual bra, but she didn't have Natasha's sizes. So instead they sent a tape measure and more instructions.\n**Chapter 14**\n\nIvan Nikitich Odoevskii didn't look like a book worm. He was tall and as richly dressed as a prince and a member of the _Boyar_ _Duma_ ought to be. He rode, he was a skilled falconer, but he did love to read. He read anything. Account books. Treatises. Stories. Anything he could get his hands on. His fierce black beard was twitching and his blue eyes squinted as he thought. \"It's complicated, Patriarch. Yes, the up-timers use paper money, but their system is a tortured mix of the government and . . . well, anarchy.\"\n\n\"Anarchy?\"\n\n\"They have something called federal reserve banks . . .\" Vladimir had sent several tracts on economics\u2014not very detailed or all that complete\u2014back to Moscow, which had arrived about the time Boris had gotten back to Grantville. Along with them had come a very rough outline of what Vladimir thought might work for a banking system in Russia. That outline would have the great families issue money, having bought the right from the Czar's Bank or the Gorchakov Bank. With some vague limitations based on how much their property was worth. Going from those tracts on up-time economics, Ivan Nikitich explained his understanding of how the future economic system worked.\n\nPatriarch Filaret was a man of no mean intellect, but his eyes were glazing over within a paragraph. He tried to follow the salient points for a while, but finally gave up. \"Enough. Can we use it, Ivan Nikitich? Can we use it?\"\n\nIvan Nikitich sighed like the wind gusting from the north. \"Yes. But it is dangerous. The tracts made that clear, even if I could only understand one word in three without talking to that idiot Bernie.\" Ivan Nikitich snorted. \"And only one word in two after talking to him. The danger is more than the simple temptation to print ever more and more as it loses its value. That's a danger, true enough. It is made worse by the fact that failing to print enough can hurt the nation even more. That is one thing the excerpts young Vladimir sent taught me. Half of Russia's troubles are caused by not enough cash.\"\n\n\"You needed a tract from the future to tell you Russia is not a wealthy nation?\" Filaret snorted in exasperation.\n\n\"No!\" Ivan Nikitich almost shouted, then visibly got hold of himself. \"Patriarch, what I needed the writings from the future to tell me was that Russia _is_ a wealthy nation. A wealthy nation with what the up-timers call a 'cash flow problem.' That Russia has everything it needs to have a booming economy, except the economy.\"\n\nFilaret glared a bit. \"Speak sense!\"\n\nIvan Nikitich sighed. \"We have grain. We have timber. We have pitch, not to mention furs of all sorts. We have rivers that in summer give us clear roads from China and India to the Baltic Sea. In hard winter, the sleighs are more efficient than wagons are. What we lack is a means of tying all those things together. Much of our trade is just that. A peasant trades a bushel of grain to another peasant for bit of cloth. It happens that way because neither peasant has any money. Did you know that over ninety percent of the up-timers' purchases were made with money? Everything from their homes to a piece of candy for their children. Everyone had money, even the very poor. That\u2014along with their transportation system\u2014made the manufacturing of goods in one place to be sold in another much more practical.\"\n\nIvan Nikitich spoke with passion. He even stood and began pacing the room. \"The raw materials are here. The trade routes are here, mostly. Even the skills are here. _Every_ peasant in Holy Rus spends half the year at some craft because you can't farm ice.\" Ivan Nikitich shook his head. \"The only thing really missing is some practical means of letting the people in one place buy the products from the people in another place. Buy them, Patriarch, not trade for them. Because barter simply won't work for what we need. The things we must have are: money, ways of transferring money from one place to another without bandits robbing the caravan, banks where bureau men and even peasants can save money or get loans. As I said\u2014everything we need for an economic boom except an economy.\"\n\n\"What you're saying is we're rich in goods but not in money?\"\n\nIvan Nikitich nodded. \"What we need is money and the writings of the up-timers explain how to do that without silver or gold. The idea, as I understand it, is to have just a little more money available than there is product for it to buy. That encourages the peasants to work harder to get the last bit. It's like hanging a carrot in front of a mule. Too close and he eats it. Too far and he gives up. Russia's carrot is hanging off the mule's ass.\"\n\n\"So, you think Vladimir is right.\" The Odoevskii didn't get along all that well with the Gorchakov family. If Ivan Nikitich could find a way to say Vladimir's report was wrong, he would.\n\n\"No, absolutely not,\" Ivan Nikitich said by reflex. Then he laughed. \"Well, perhaps a little bit. The way the boy proposes to go about it is all wrong. We are not some barbarous western nation. It will need to be the Czar's Bank and all the little banks part of the Czar's Bank. The Gorchakov boy's proposal will just make the Gorchakov family richer than they already are.\"\n\nFilaret gave the Boyar of the Exchequer a look.\n\n\"Very well. The Gorchakov family and many others,\" Ivan Nikitich conceded. \"But the czar should reap a greater benefit if the government owns all the banks, not just the Czar's Bank.\"\n\nFilaret considered. \"What bureau would control the Czar's Bank?\" He gave Ivan Nikitich another hard look.\n\nIvan Nikitich gave him back look for look. \"The bureau of the exchequer is the obvious choice,\" he acknowledged.\n\nIn some ways Filaret really preferred Vladimir's plan. As chaotic as it was, it had the advantage of not putting the power of a central bank in the hands of one of the great families. On the other hand, having the Romanov family in charge of the central bank would strengthen them considerably.\n\n* * *\n\nThe discussion continued for several hours that night and then broadened over the next several days. Eventually, it included every member of the _Boyar Duma_ cabinet and many members of the Assembly of the Land. It was pointed out that the institution of this system would probably mean fewer taxes would be needed, at least for now. Which made it quite popular. There was much support among the great houses and monasteries for Vladimir's plan but the _deti boyars_ , the service nobility, and the merchants hated it. Both because of the extra power it would give the great houses and monasteries if they could print their own money and because of the difficulty they could see clearly in determining how much this house's ruble would be worth versus that monastery's ruble. That pitted the great houses against the service nobility. Not an uncommon occurrence. But while everyone was fighting over which way to do it, the whether to do it got decided by default.\n\nThe czar, at his father's urging, came down on the side of the service nobility. The money would be issued by the Czar's Bank. All banks in Russia would be branches of the Czar's Bank. Which, by the way, would offer nice jobs for lots of the service nobility. Something that didn't make it into the general discussion was the fact that more money would make it easier for serfs to buy out of their bonds to the land. Not that that mattered much. Every year for the last decade and more had had a decree from the czar that the serfs couldn't leave that year, even if they had paid off their debt.\n\n* * *\n\nFedor Ivanovich Sheremetev leaned over to his friend and chief henchman, Colonel Leontii Shuvalov, as the debate went on. \"It was good that the note from Vladimir arrived in time to prevent the patriarch from dragging us into war with Poland, but the notion that they are truly from the future disturbs me.\"\n\n\"I'm not entirely comfortable with it myself, my lord, but facts are facts and Bernie is real. The stuff he brought from Germany is real.\"\n\n\"And the knowledge,\" Sheremetev grumbled. \"Slavery and serfdom were both banned in their world. It will give our serfs ideas. There are too many new ideas coming out of Germany these days and they will spread faster with this outlander from the future here. The Gorchakovs are really just puffed-up merchants, even if they did hold their land independently before it was absorbed by Muscovy. Why did Filaret give them the patent on these new inventions?\"\n\nHe knew why Filaret had done it. It was precisely _because_ the Gorchakovs were just puffed-up merchants with little connection to the factions in the great families. He shrugged. \"Who knows? Maybe it won't amount to much. Games and rumors are all that have come from that dacha of theirs in the months he's been here.\"\n**Chapter 15**\n\nAndrei Korisov sawed away at the barrel of the rifled musket. He had taken it out of the musket and was sawing off the breech end. He had, he thought, the beginnings of an idea. He had spent the last three months going over the history of firearms with Bernie, a subject that the up-timer knew rather less about than he thought he did. Andrei was convinced of that. Andrei didn't know what parts were missing, and that was perhaps the most frustrating aspect of it all. But a week ago, they had gotten to talking about movies and Bernie had remembered that the ball and cap pistols of the old west had been muzzle-loaders.\n\nThat, of course, wasn't what Bernie had said, but after discussing it with him for two hours, that was what Andrei was convinced the up-timer was describing. Powder, then shot shoved down a short barrel. There were six of the short barrels in a cylinder which was why the pistols were called six-shooters, but the six barrels weren't full length. There was an earlier version that was called a pepper-pot, according to Bernie, in which the barrels were full length but the six shooters had short barrels that rotated into position behind a longer barrel. And that was what had led Andrei to his gun shop in the middle of the night, filled with uncertain inspiration.\n\n_How much force did you lose_ , Andrei wondered as he sawed, _out of that gap between the short barrel and the long? It couldn't be so much that the bullet stopped in the barrel. It couldn't even be so much as to rob the bullet of its knock-down power. Not when sent through a short pistol barrel. But how much would you lose when it was fired though a long musket barrel? Would the length of the barrel make any difference? Was that why they only used the technique on pistols?_\n\nHaving cut the rear five inches of the barrel off, Andrei carefully smoothed away burrs with a fine file, then reinstalled the barrel in the stock. Placing the back of the barrel in a vise, he proceeded to load it with powder and shot. He pressed a lead ball and wadding into the chamber he had created, then reinserted it into the rifle, being careful to make sure that it lined up properly, and then tied it into place. This was simply a test, after all.\n\nOn due consideration, Andrei looked at the rifle sitting in the sandbag, then decided that he was too important to risk.\n\n\"Ivan, come over here,\" Andrei shouted. He always shouted, since the peasant workers wouldn't actually do anything if he didn't.\n\nThis one, whose name might or might not have been Ivan, came over, looking warily at the rifle.\n\n\"I want you to lean down and pull that trigger,\" Andrei said.\n\nIvan looked a bit nervous, so Andrei glared at him harder. \"Lean down and pull that trigger.\"\n\nThe peasant finally complied. The musket was braced in sandbags for stability and it was at an awkward height. The peasant put his left hand on the sandbag to brace himself, leaned down and put his right hand by the trigger. This put his head just above the gap and his left wrist just beside it.\n\n\"Pull the trigger!\"\n\nSo he did.\n\n\" _Yaaaaah!_ \" Ivan jerked back, grabbed his left wrist and put his right arm over his face, still screaming.\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" Andrei shouted. \"Get out of here!\"\n\nThe gun shot didn't attract much attention. But Ivan's continued screaming did.\n\nFilip Pavlovich Tupikov came running from the blacksmith's shop, where the Fresno scraper was being finished. \"What happened?\" he asked.\n\n\"It worked,\" Andrei said, and then pointed downrange. \"See the target?\"\n\nThere was a little black hole in the paper target, a little below the bull's-eye.\n\n\"What was that man screaming about?\" The injured man was being helped away by several other workers.\n\n\"He put his hand in the wrong place, the idiot,\" Andrei said with a dismissive wave. He didn't notice Filip's change of expression as he looked at the rifle. The firing chamber, the back of the barrel that he had cut off, had shoved back into the stock and cracked it. Also the same escaping gas that had injured the peasant had cut into the stock of the gun. \"Look what happened to the rifle. The stock is damaged. I'll have to work on that. Can't have the stock being damaged by only one firing. Perhaps a shield of some sort.\"\n\nAndrei ignored Filip as he left, immersed in reworking his rifle design. A few more shots and the gun would come apart, but that was beside the point. His solution had sent the bullet downrange without too much loss of force. Some, yes. There was more drop at twenty yards, but only a little more. Still what about a shorter barrel? Would there be more drop or less?\n\nAndrei started working on how he would mount the firing chamber on a gimbal of some sort so that it could be flipped up for reloading, and flipped back down for firing. And some sort of shield so that the escaping gas from the firing wouldn't damage the stock.\n\n* * *\n\nFilip Pavlovich entered the dacha's new \"clinic,\" more out of curiosity than anything else. Andrei Korisov was irritating, but the making of guns was really his responsibility and none of Filip's business. But he was curious, so he intended to ask the injured peasant what had happened.\n\n\"Hold him down! And get me some swabs and alcohol!\" Vitaly Alexseev said. Vitaly was the Dacha's new barber-surgeon.\n\nFrom what Filip understood, Vitaly had been a fairly prosperous surgeon in Moscow when Princess Natalia hired him to learn about up-time surgery. Filip watched Vitaly work with a mixture of condescension and interest, which slowly gave way to a sort of grudging respect. Vitaly might not be of the nobility, but he was very good at what he did and had picked up on Bernie's explanations, crude as they were, of sterile technique. He had swabbed down the wound with alcohol, in spite of the increased screaming of the peasant. His thread had been soaked in alcohol, so would not introduce corruption into the wounds. All in all, Vitaly seemed a very competent man.\n\nAbout halfway through the procedure, the peasant fainted, which made everything much easier. Luckily, whatever had wounded the man had missed his eye, so it was only the fairly shallow cuts along his wrist and forehead that had to be dealt with.\n\n\"There,\" Vitaly said, finally finished with his bandaging. \"When he wakes up, I'll speak with Anatoly Federov and we'll decide what type of pain-killers to use. I'm not sure that the aspirin will be enough for these injuries. They're superficial, but they're going to be very painful.\n\n\"What did you do to him?\" Vitaly asked Filip.\n\n\"Me? Nothing. It happened on the firing range. I wasn't even there.\" Then Filip had a thought and asked a question. \"What can you tell me? From the wounds, I mean.\"\n\nVitaly paused, clearly thinking about what he had looked at. \"It's strange. It was not like a cut. And there was a tattooing of powder residue around the wounds. It was not quite like anything I've ever seen before. A tearing of the skin and the flesh beneath it. As though it were chewed up by a thousand tiny mouths. The good news is, it wasn't deep. He should be fine assuming the alcohol works and he doesn't get infected.\"\n\nFilip shuddered.\n\n\"I wish you people would have a little more care,\" Vitaly said, \"with the people who work for you.\"\n\n* * *\n\nLazar Smirnov played with wires and batteries in an aromatic room in the Gorchakov dacha. The aromas weren't, perhaps, those that most people might find attractive. But Lazar found them pleasant for what they represented. He had a copper sulfate battery. In fact, he had several and he had copper wire, fine and coated in lacquer, which he had coiled around a wooden dowel and coated in more lacquer, and when he hooked the coil up to the batteries, he got magnetism. An invisible force moving things and under his control. It was magic in every sense that mattered to Lazar. Better, it required no pact with a devil or demon, simply knowledge and understanding.\n\nLazar was one of the privileged elite of Russia. A member of a cadet branch of a great house, a fifth cousin to the czar, he was important enough to have all the privileges of rank but far enough away from the halls of power not to have to do anything. It made for a fairly pleasant, if somewhat boring, existence. He had been asked by his family head to come to the new research center\u2014usually just called the Dacha\u2014to see what was going on. \"You like to read, Cousin. Go have a look around, stay a few months, see what it's all about,\" he had been told. So he had come and now suspected that he would never leave, given the choice. He liked experiments. He liked learning how things worked and he liked doing magic, even if others called it science.\n\nLazar looked around his lab and smiled. Here was a piece of iron ore, pounded just enough to turn it into a rod but leave it full of impurities. As Lazar understood the books, it would make a heating element, getting hot as the electricity tried to flow through it and was resisted by the impurities on the metal. Over there was a crystal radio set that he had made carefully to the specifications in the pamphlet from Grantville. It had nothing to listen to, but Lazar had it nonetheless. Next to it, a key to a telegraph. When he pressed it, it let current flow through the electromagnet and the compass moved as he clicked out Morse code. He was a happy man.\n**Chapter 16**\n\n**_April 1632_**\n\n\"Good morning, Bernie,\" Anya said with a flirtatious smile as she brought in a pitcher of hot water and a washing bowl. Indoor plumbing was a possibility now that the snow was melting. Still, it would probably be midsummer before it became a reality. So it was chamber pots and maids to empty them. The fact that Anya was willing to do more than empty chamber pots was both a lot of fun and kind of upsetting.\n\nBernie found the whole class situation in Russia strange and upsetting. More so than he'd thought he would. Bernie had discovered that he _really_ didn't like serfdom. Somewhere deep down inside of him was a belief in the basic rights of people and seeing those rights ignored angered him.\n\nThe whole issue of serfdom was more complicated than he would have thought, too. He himself was off to the side of the class system somewhere around the upper end of the service nobility and the lower end of the upper nobility. He was a hired foreigner, which would normally put him in or just below the service nobility. But Bernie was special. He had actually and demonstrably experienced a miracle. He was here in this time because God had personally put him here. Of more practical importance, what he could do was absolutely unique in Russia.\n\nBernie wasn't sure how it had happened. Maybe Boris, maybe one of the letters that Vladimir had sent, in any case the word had been given. Anya had told him about it. The majordomo of the Dacha had picked servant girls for attractiveness and had made clear that keeping Bernie happy was a job requirement. Anya also told him that there was some real competition to get the jobs.\n\nThat job requirement bothered Bernie. At the same time, he was a young man with hormones flooding his system. If a pretty girl found opportunity in his bed, that was fine with him. His attitude was hypocritical as hell and he knew it. He was suddenly a bit more understanding of the whole Thomas Jefferson\/Sally Hemmings thing. _There's a profound truth there somewhere,_ Bernie thought as he watched the sway of Anya's breasts. _If it's be honest and don't get laid or be a hypocrite and get laid, then a hypocrite most guys will be._\n\nBernie had spent the first months at the Dacha getting to know the staff and learning Russian through total immersion. He was getting better at Russian and beginning to know the players there.\n\nThere were the philosophers\/scientists, mostly the low end of the upper nobility because they were the ones who could afford an education, but with a fair number of the service nobility and more than a few monks and priests. Then there were the craftsmen; they were mostly of the _Streltzi_ class. The _Streltzi's_ duty to the czar was to guard the cities, so, unlike the service nobility, they weren't granted much in the way of lands but got the right to engage in crafts and trade. Then there were the servants. These were mostly serfs from the Gorchakov estates. About half of them had been at the Dacha before the Ring of Fire. The rest were shipped in to support the additional staff. A few servants had been hired from Moscow and were at the low end of the _Streltzi_ class, basically peasants not tied to the land.\n\nAt the center of it all was Bernie and the books. Mostly Bernie so far, because Vladimir was still setting up the processes to get the books copied and sent to Russia. While a number of books were sent with Bernie and Boris, there were none that were Russia-focused. They were books and parts of books that had been copied because others wanted them.\n\n\"You know what's planned for today?\" Bernie asked Anya as he washed his face then headed for the chamber pot.\n\n\"It's the scraper,\" Anya said. \"It's a clear day and they want to see how it works.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe Fresno scrapers left Filip Pavlovich Tupikov wondering what they really needed Bernie for. It wasn't that he was unhelpful. \"Yes, _da_ ,\" Bernie said. \"The handles let you control the depth of the cut. Push down for a shallower cut, let them rise just a bit for a deeper cut.\"\n\nFilip translated.\n\n\"How deep can you cut?\" Petr Stefanovich asked.\n\nFilip translated the question.\n\n\"It depends on the ground,\" Bernie explained. \"If you loosen the earth with a drag board, you can usually cut a couple of inches. You get a feel for it with practice. You start to notice when the scraper is pushing up hard. Then you have to push down and shallow the cut.\"\n\nFilip translated. Bernie had indeed been of help to the blacksmith and carpenters in making an iron reinforced wooden version of the scraper. That wasn't the reason Filip wondered why they needed Bernie. Filip had seen the design for the scraper, the drag board and a couple of other pieces of road construction equipment. They were all quite clear. Written and drawn to make it easy for a village smith and carpenter.\n\nThe horses, small steppe ponies, were hitched and Filip followed along as Bernie demonstrated. A cut about half an inch deep grew quickly to a length of about twenty feet.\n\n\"Whoa.\" Bernie pulled the horses up. He turned to Petr. \"You want to give it a try?\"\n\nPetr Stefanovich took Bernie's place. At first the scraper slid along the ground. \"Lift the handles.\" Bernie gave directions as Filip translated. Filip stepped between Bernie and Petr Stefanovich to see. Petr Stefanovich lifted the handles about three inches.\n\n\"Gently!\" Bernie shouted. The next thing Filip Pavlovich Tupikov knew he was being jerked back by his collar. He saw a blur.\n\nHe turned on the uppity outlander but Bernie wasn't there. He was checking on Petr Stefanovich, who was holding his arm and looking surprised. The scraper was turned over and the ponies were looking back in confusion.\n\n\"Look, man.\" Bernie's voice was harsh. \"This stuff is heavy equipment even if it's run by horses, not a motor. Gentle does it, especially at first, until you get to know it. I don't give a damn how big you are, you're not stronger than two horses working together with leverage on their side.\" Bernie took a deep breath. \"You empty the bucket by lifting the handle, too. As you just demonstrated.\" Then Bernie turned to Filip Pavlovich, eyes flashing. \"That was pretty dammed stupid for a guy who thinks he's smart. The handles on the scraper are like the end of a lever. You just came within an inch of getting your head busted, big time.\"\n\nFilip Pavlovich looked at the scraper, remembered the blur and decided that perhaps Bernie wasn't totally useless after all. Even if he was rude. Filip went ahead and translated Bernie's speech for Petr Stefanovich.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie wasn't sure whether to be elated or scared to death. He had just repeated, almost word for word, the two lectures he had received the first day he worked with the scraper after he joined the road crew. The combination of his wrenched arms and the fear in the supervisor's eyes had impressed the lecture on him. Petr Stefanovich was a big mother, and proud of it. Bernie should have figured that he would push it, but he hadn't. Worse, Bernie hadn't even considered that Filip Pavlovich, the Russian nerd, would stick his head in the way of the handles. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him that someone could get killed using the stuff he helped the Russians build.\n\n\"Look, guys. This stuff can be dangerous. I guess most of the stuff we brought back in the Ring of Fire can be dangerous, even the medicine.\" Filip was looking at him funny and Bernie sort of ran out of steam, not really knowing how to say what he wanted to say. He really didn't want to be responsible for getting someone killed.\n\n\"I understand, Bernie. You came to help us. It's all right. People get killed using shovels to smooth a road or dig a canal, too. Believe me, this will help.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAs soon as the test was finished, Filip informed Natasha and sent a message to the Grantville desk in Moscow. So much he was supposed to do. He also sent one to his cousin who worked in the bureau of roads. That, he did on his own.\n\nThe Grantville desk had been pretty much in limbo since Boris had left for Grantville. It was known that Boris would be taking over the Grantville desk when he got back, so not much of anything was being done till they had a boss to blame it on. Put more kindly, they didn't know what to do. Especially, they didn't have a clue what to do with information coming out of the Dacha. It wasn't, after all, coming from Grantville, not directly. So, like several other items, it got tossed on Boris' unused desk to await his return.\n\nNatasha, on the other hand, knew what to do. She sent letters to several potential customers about the new device that could be seen at the Dacha. Among others, the letters went out to the main bureau of roads and several of the local bureaus of roads, the ones for various cities and districts. In part because of Filip's letter to his cousin, Natasha's letters were accepted with less reservation than they might otherwise have been.\n\nStill, things had to go through channels. It was some weeks before they could arrange for a viewing of the scraper and the drag board. In the meantime, both devices had been put to use. The primary purpose of that use was to familiarize the crews with the equipment. But the still small Dacha team also wanted to show off.\n\n* * *\n\nYuri Mikhailovich was in charge of assigning crews to specific roads in the area around Moscow. Yuri pulled up, staring at a ridge in the road\u2014path, rather\u2014he was riding on. About a hundred yards from the Dacha, the road suddenly rose about six inches and became quite smooth. Much smoother than Yuri would have expected of even a good road crew. There were bare sections on either side, where an inch or two of top soil had been scraped away, clearly where the new surface of the road had come from. Slowly, Yuri approached the road. When he reached the road he climbed down and examined the new road. Evaluating.\n\nYuri climbed back onto his pony and proceeded to the Dacha. Looking for the scraper but not finding it.\n\n* * *\n\nOne of the kitchen boys came and fetched Natasha when he rode into the yard. She met Filip Pavlovich, with Bernie in tow, on the way to the door. Filip identified his cousin Yuri while he was getting back on his horse.\n\n\"Come, come.\" Filip Pavlovich waved at his cousin. Rather pompously, Natasha thought. Then led the way around back, where the scraper was in use.\n\nNatasha and Bernie let Filip do the explaining. In Bernie's case, it was because his Russian still wasn't good enough. Natasha wanted to see how Filip would present the equipment.\n\nThe drag board was just a board with spikes sticking out the bottom. It was used to cut the ground and loosen the soil. In combination with the scraper, two men and four small Russian ponies could do a phenomenal amount of work\u2014more than twenty men with shovels could accomplish.\n\nAs they turned the corner and could see behind the main house, Yuri stopped and stared.\n\n\"You see?\" Filip Pavlovich waved at the project. \"You see what can be accomplished?\"\n\nThe trench was about seventeen feet, just under three scrapers, wide. It was a hundred feet long and about three feet deep, not including the mounds on either side of it. It had ramps on either end which allowed the horses to get in and out of the trench, which the team pulling the scraper was doing now.\n\n\"It will take planning for proper use.\" Filip Pavlovich waved at it again. \"With that planning, a team can cut a six foot wide trench at a rate of approximately one mile in four hours in this sort of soil. The trench will be approximately two inches deep. The second pass is actually slightly faster than the first because the ground is smoother. Three teams could do the same but with the trench seventeen feet wide. Or a six-foot-wide trench, six inches deep, could be cut. As the depth of the cut deepens, it gets harder to do, of course. You need a ramp about every hundred feet.\"\n\nYuri nodded, still watching the scraper as it dumped a load along the side of the trench. It had climbed the ramp then gone around to the side of the trench to dump the load. He finally pulled his eyes away from the scraper and looked at Filip Pavlovich. \"I am impressed with the scraper, Filip Pavlovich. Considering your comments about planning, why didn't you take your own advice and plan the placement of this trench to serve some purpose? You could have made a fish pond if nothing else.\" There was a grin in Yuri's voice that indicated he was getting back at Filip for his pompous presentation. If so, Natasha couldn't really blame him.\n\nNatasha had found herself twitting Filip on more than one occasion. Filip was what might be thought of as an intellectual snob. On the other hand she knew that Yuri was of higher rank in the bureaus and, according to Filip, had a tendency to lecture.\n\nFilip Pavlovich sighed, and Natasha tried not to laugh as he explained, \"It's for the tile field, part of the plumbing system. See the notch halfway down the trench? That will be dug deeper for the septic tank.\"\n\n\"What's a plumbing system?\" Yuri Asked.\n\nFilip explained.\n\n\"As I said, why didn't you do something useful?\"\n\n\"We are making something useful,\" Natasha spoke up. \"I have it on good authority that much of the disease we suffer from in spring is caused by the thawing of frozen human waste.\"\n\nYuri froze. He'd forgotten that he and his cousin had an observer from a high house, Natasha thought sardonically.\n\n\"Bernie, as yet, has little Russian.\" Natasha waved at him. \"But we have pamphlets from Grantville that he has helped us translate. Disease travels from human waste to water to its next victims. Not all diseases, but enough to explain the sickness that comes to Moscow every spring. In general, this process is well-documented, though not in regard to Moscow.\" Natasha smiled to take a little of the sting out of her words. \"Bernie's great concern over the indoor plumbing has, I fear, less to do with protection from disease than it does for comfort.\"\n\nFilip Pavlovich sighed again, more real this time. \"Toilets and showers are his constant obsession. When I first saw the design I thought it would take months. Now it seems we will see it begin to work in a few more days.\"\n\n\"So we are presented with a useful device that is to be used for expensive doodads?\" Yuri sneered.\n\n\"Not entirely.\" Filip Pavlovich's admission was a bit grudging. \"In spite of Bernie's obsession with what he calls decadent civilization . . .\" He threw a glance at Bernie, who grinned. \"The princess is right. Sanitation is an essential part of preventing the spread of disease. It is a complicated field and I have not studied it deeply yet.\"\n\nNatasha was trying not to grin, both because she was intrigued by the idea of decadent civilization and what you might be able to do in what Bernie called a hot tub, and because she was finding the notion of doing those things with Bernie increasingly interesting, even attractive. Bernie was as different from the men she'd known in Russia as she imagined a bathroom was from an outhouse.\n\n\"Princess?\"\n\nThat was Filip. Natasha had let her attention wander from the business at hand. Again.\n\n\"Sorry, Filip. What did you say?\"\n\n\"We were speaking of sanitation.\"\n\nNatasha jerked her mind back to the subject of the scrapers. Filip Pavlovich's admission meant that there was another use for scrapers which in turn meant that the scrapers were still more valuable. \"Oh. Yes. Sanitation and the involvement of the scraper in removing waste. A very useful application.\"\n\nYuri didn't manage to hide his scowl, and looked at his cousin rather than at Natasha. \"What else have you got?\"\n\nFilip Pavlovich shrugged. \"There is a report on something called 'macadam style road construction.' We haven't finished translating it yet. It seems to make for good roads that handle the winter freezing well.\"\n\nNew roads and canals would make trade easier and safer. And with the introduction of a monetary system, there would be better opportunities for trade within Russia.\n\nNatasha smiled as Filip explained. \"We used the road out front to practice road work, and then we used this to test its use in digging canals.\"\n\n\"Canals?\" Natasha heard the apprehension in Yuri's voice though Filip Pavlovich apparently missed it.\n\n\"The scraper works by scraping a thin layer of soil then putting it somewhere else. By going over the same stretch again and again you can go a little deeper with every pass.\" Filip Pavlovich waved at the trench. \"Roads, leach fields, canals, even cellars. Anything where large amounts of earth need to be moved.\"\n\nThe underchief of roads gave his cousin a sharp look, which Filip Pavlovich appeared totally unaware of. The bureaus of canals and river transport were constantly in competition with roads for resources of all sorts. The families that controlled the bureaus disliked each other intensely. _The bidding war has begun_ , Natasha thought.\n\n* * *\n\nAnd so it had. Not, of course, without interference from Filaret. While Natasha's family owned the patents on the scraper so, by agreement, did the government. That meant, as Filaret interpreted it, that if the bureau of roads wanted to manufacture their own scrapers, they had a perfect right to. Natasha didn't disagree with that interpretation. Of course, the bureau of roads wasn't really set up to manufacture scrapers. Unfortunately, neither was the Dacha. The Dacha was a research facility, not a manufactory. Worse, they were entering the farming season. For the next six months, the large majority of people in Russia would be working to get grain into the ground, then taking care of the plants and harvesting. The time for making came in winter. What blacksmithing was done in summer was emergency fixes.\n\n\"But these _are_ emergency fixes,\" Yuri insisted. \"Every one of these frees up ten men for farm work while still allowing the road work to be done. And we are going to need the roads in good order come harvest time.\"\n\nNatasha completely agreed with Yuri's assessment. \"But there is the matter of payment. The blacksmiths and carpenters involved in making the scrapers must be paid. The time taken away from their normal work will also delay the repair of tools used in planting and harvesting. If our family estates are to be used in producing scrapers for the rest of Russia, the family must be compensated for the loss of skilled labor.\n\n\"If, on the other hand, you wish to send out plans to the villages and estates all over Russia telling them that they must put aside useful work in order to make a strange new gadget that the bureau of roads wishes them to employ . . .\" Natasha shrugged. \"I wish you the best of luck, but don't hold us responsible for the results. Say rather, lack of results, you are likely to achieve.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, Princess. But how are we supposed to pay for it? We are provided labor for repairing the roads, not money.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSo it went. Roads and canals, as well as private organizations, monasteries and land owners all arguing over how to get scrapers without either paying for them or having to pull their already overworked smiths off the necessary jobs they were doing. It wasn't that people were trying to cheat Natasha's family. Not entirely. Mostly it was simply that the equipment was needed and the money to pay for it wasn't there. The _Boyar_ _Duma_ and the Assembly of the Land were still arguing over the fine points of the new Czar's Bank and the new money it would issue. The money was not yet issued. And how were people to pay for scrapers without money?\n\nStill, it worked out over that first summer in the same ragged way that such things often work out. Some scrapers were made on the Gorchakov lands by Gorchakov smiths who worked in what was in effect a factory, making the parts and assembling them. These were produced with less time and less effort than the ones where a smith in a village had to work out everything from the instruction sets, and work on the scraper in between his other work. Those who had the cash bought the Gorchakov scrapers, which, aside from everything else, were generally better made because the people making them quickly gained practice.\n\nBut not nearly as many scrapers were made as were needed. The scrapers made a difference, but over all that summer the difference was minor. In the spots where there were plenty of scrapers, however, the difference was phenomenal. For instance, the road work that the Gorchakov were required to supply and which generally took several hundred men working for over a month, in 1632 took fifty men working for two weeks. The rest of that labor draft was available for other Gorchakov projects and the Dacha provided them several. All of that took time to happen.\n**Chapter 17**\n\nSpring was in the air and mud was on the ground as Bernie and a small troop of Natasha's guards left the Dacha to travel to the Gorchakov family townhouse in Moscow. It was a pleasant ride on little Russian steppe ponies. The sun was shining and the temperature was in the mid-forties. The breeze was gentle, not the chilling wind of winter. Bernie and the guardsmen laughed and joked about the girls of the Dacha and the visit of the bureau man. Bernie got teased about what invention he ought to introduce and teased the guards back about what inventions they might have to try out.\n\nAll in all, it was a wonderful morning right up until they reached the outskirts of Moscow. As they entered the city, they were met with a delegation.\n\n\"The slow fever has broken out,\" said a somewhat chubby fellow in the dress of a member of the service nobility, or perhaps a very wealthy member of the merchant class.\n\n\"What's slow fever?\" Bernie asked.\n\nThat took some explaining and while they were figuring out that it wasn't anything Bernie knew anything about they had drawn a crowd.\n\nThe guard captain said, \"I know there's probably nothing you can do, Bernie. But at least have a look.\"\n\nAnd Bernie couldn't see any way out of it. Moscow in the seventeenth century didn't have much in the way of hospitals. So it was homes Bernie was taken to; homes of the rich, homes of the poor. There weren't a lot of common factors and for a while Bernie managed to be analytical trying to figure out what was causing the people to get sick. For a while. Then he couldn't any more. These were people . . . men, women, children. The houses stank and the healers were doing the best they could. There was no way Bernie could think of these guys as doctors what with their talk of balancing humors. But he managed not to call them quacks out loud because it was pretty obvious that they cared about their patients and, again, they were doing the best they could.\n\nBut there was this little kid, a boy maybe four or five. He was running a high fever. Even Bernie could tell that much, and his bed was shat in. The healer had just finished bleeding the kid when Bernie got there. He'd be a cute kid, Bernie thought, in other circumstances. It was clear the little boy didn't know what was going on and that he was in pain. It was like one of those ads asking for money for starving kids in Africa or South America back up-time. Except for the smell. The smell of week-old shit and death. Bernie barely managed not to vomit. This little kid who hadn't done anything to deserve it was dying because he didn't have modern medicines, just like Bernie's mom had died because she didn't have medicines.\n\nBernie stood outside the log house on a Moscow street, breathing in the spring air, knowing that the little boy was almost certainly going to die. God might be a bastard, but he wasn't out after Bernie specifically. The Ring of Fire didn't happen just to turn Bernie's life upside-down. That little boy and all the other people would have gotten sick whether the Ring of Fire happened or not. He'd known that all along, really, but it hadn't felt like it. It had felt like the whole Ring of Fire was just God messing with Bernie Zeppi. Now, suddenly, it didn't feel that way. It was more than a little humbling that Bernie wasn't the center of the universe. The little boy dying in his own waste had had his own life. A life cut short and the kid was going to die in a lot more pain than Bernie's mom had.\n\nWhat was a whole lot worse than humbling was the thought that maybe if Bernie had known what he was doing he might have been able to save the kid and who knew how many others. Maybe he wouldn't have, but he didn't know enough even to figure out what the disease was. Maybe cholera? He thought he'd read somewhere that cholera had something to do with diarrhea and most everyone who had this had that.\n\nThe street was muddy and there was a bit of a taint to the air. Not just from the house where the boy was. Suddenly Bernie remembered a cartoon he'd seen somewhere with this cowboy apologizing to his horse as he hammered a cork into the horse ass. Something about an EPA regulation. That's what he was smelling. Not really a barnyard smell. Not quite. An outhouse smell, that was it. The whole city of Moscow smelled faintly of outhouse. The problem was that Bernie didn't know if it meant anything. He just didn't know.\n\n\"Okay, asshole,\" Bernie muttered to himself. \"What do you know? You must know something that will help.\"\n\nThere was one thing that he was pretty sure of. Bleeding didn't actually help any disease he'd ever heard of. Maybe gangrene or something like that, but not an illness. He waved at one of the guards. \"Listen, Pavel, I don't know all that much about medicine but this much I do know. In my time we've known for centuries that bleeding people who are sick doesn't help. I'll write Prince Vladimir for confirmation, but I'm not waiting for an answer. The next time I see one of these guys bleeding someone with this, I'm going to bleed them. Cut their throat from ear-to-ear and bleed them right out.\" Bernie looked Pavel dead in the eye and Pavel went a little pale.\n\nThen Bernie continued. \"I know it's not their fault. Doctors were still bleeding people in the Revolutionary War and that's like 1776. But it doesn't work! And it makes the patient weaker, more likely to die. If I have to take down a few of these guys to make it stop, I'm still saving lives.\"\n\nWell, Bernie was in it now. He'd made his first medical pronouncement and it was a doozie. He knew that he wasn't going to be able to leave it at that.\n\nIn all the doctor shows back up-time, the doctors wore masks when they were doing surgery and he knew that when there was fear of an epidemic in places like Japan sometimes people wore masks. He knew that that was because some diseases were transmitted by air, by people sneezing on each other or even breathing on each other. Was this disease like that? Bernie didn't know. He knew that in hospitals and restaurants they were fussy about washing your hands. And he remembered something about childbed fever being carried by doctors who didn't wash their hands. Besides, all the hospital shows always had doctors and nurses washing their hands and wearing rubber gloves before and after they treated anyone. If the masks didn't help, washing hands might. Or the other way around. Maybe if he could get people to do both it might help keep this sickness from spreading.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie started improvising. He sent one of the guards back to the Dacha to get anything they had on diagnosing disease. And while they were there, to pick up Anatoly Fedorov, the apothecary and Vitaly Alexseev, the barber-surgeon, who were staying at the Dacha.\n\nIt turned out that there was almost nothing in the Dacha about diagnosing or treating disease. However, Anatoly and Vitaly had known Bernie for months by now and had talked to him before about up-time medical and sanitary practices. So while they weren't entirely convinced of the importance of such things, they had at least been exposed to the germ theory of disease. They'd even seen a couple of pictures of cells. Not photographs, but drawings copied from up-time books.\n\nIt was in their interest that the up-time techniques worked. It would give them an advantage over their competitors. This, it seemed, would make a decent test case. So they supported Bernie's recommendations. For the next weeks Bernie, the guards, and the medical community, such as it was in seventeenth-century Moscow, fought a holding action against an enemy everyone except Bernie knew too well. Bernie worked as hard as anyone and in the process got up close and personal with the grinding poverty and squalor of seventeenth-century Russia.\n\nWere they successful? Who could say? The annual spring epidemic of typhoid fever was less severe in 1632 than it had been in 1631. Fewer people caught it and fewer of those who caught it died.\n\nThe reason for fewer deaths could have been the washing of the hands. It could have been the masks. And it could have been the boiled water with a touch of salt and sugar that Bernie called Gatorade that they gave to the sick to try to stave off dehydration. It could be those things made a difference. It could also be the placebo effect of Bernie's masks and his being an up-timer touched by God. Or it might have just been a mild year.\n\nThe little boy died barely a day into the fight. But, though he would never know it, he left a legacy for Russia. By the time Bernie returned to the Dacha he knew that his getting it right made a difference. That difference was the difference between life and death. Not just for little kids who might catch a disease but for thousands of other kids and adults. Kids who would go hungry without better plows, or better crops. Craftsmen who couldn't get their goods to market without better roads. What had been a job for Bernie Zeppi had become a calling.\n**Chapter 18**\n\n**_May 1632_**\n\nBernie missed the progress meeting where Andrei Korisov announced the AK1. He was still in Moscow. Andrei didn't let Bernie's absence slow him down in the least. He didn't believe that Bernie either needed, or deserved, much of the credit. \"There is some loss of force from the gap between the firing chamber and the barrel, but surprisingly little. And a shield to protect the stock from outgassing must be installed. There is some danger from outgassing, but, again, the shield, plus moderate care, should avoid any serious problems.\"\n\nNatasha didn't scream at the man. Four of the servants in the Dacha had been debilitated by the squirts of gas from the gap between firing chamber and the barrel, and one poor lad had been killed when the firing chamber had broken though the stock and hit him in the head. What she really wanted to do was have Andrei Korisov shot with his own gun, but she couldn't. He was a _deti boyar_ , and one of Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev's at that. It was early days yet, but Sheremetev was starting to get interested in the Dacha and what it was producing.\n\nShe wanted Andrei Korisov out of the Dacha, but she couldn't do it by punishing him for the people his experiments had hurt. Suddenly, she knew what to do. Vladimir had friends in the army and so did Boris. Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev was arguing that the arming of Russia shouldn't be left in the Dacha, and he probably already had the full particulars about Andrei Korisov's cut-up gun. In a few weeks, she would make a trip to Moscow, visit some of Vladimir's friends in the army and, perhaps, Boris. Meanwhile, she held her face steady while Andrei Korisov gloated over his new toy.\n\nThen she went on to the next person.\n\n\"I've produced electrical sparks, miniature lightnings,\" Lazar Smirnov said. \"But I can't tell yet if they are producing the electromagnetic waves the papers talk about. I've made a crystal radio set, but I have no way of telling if it works. Certainly, one of them doesn't, because the sparks aren't making the crystal set make noise, which, if I'm reading all this right, it should.\"\n\n\"What about the heating units?\" Natasha asked.\n\n\"I think they're too big for the batteries, Princess,\" Lazar said. \"I'll know more when Bernie gets back and translates these pamphlets for me.\"\n\nThe princess looked over at Filip, knowing what he was going to say.\n\n\"We had a boiler blow up,\" Filip said. \"We had used a copper pot and had a coppersmith weld the lid on. We had a steam pipe going from it to a bellows, the idea being to use the steam to expand the bellows. Using pressure to get work rather than work to get pressure, as it were. But we did something wrong. I'm not entirely sure what, but I think we had a valve in backwards.\n\n\"We put the fire under it, we waited for the bellows to lift but it didn't. We added more wood, and then the pot split. We had injuries, Princess. The coppersmith's apprentice was standing too close when it split. But we had no warning. Nothing at all to indicate what was going to happen. There must be a way to tell that sort of thing, but I don't know. I won't even know what to look for until Bernie gets back. I've written to your brother, asking for more information. Maybe internal combustion is safer.\" Filip shrugged. \"We just don't know enough.\"\n\n\"I know and I am sorry, Filip,\" Natasha said. \"I went by and saw the boy. He is doing well.\" She took a deep breath and continued, \"Some good news to end the meeting. The plows and scrapers we sent to Murom are in use and our road preparation and plowing are well ahead of schedule. We'll meet again when Bernie gets back. But know, my friends, that the Dacha is producing good results in the wider world.\"\n**Chapter 19**\n\n**_June 1632_**\n\nBoris got back to Russia while the fight against the typhoid fever outbreak was still going on but after Bernie had gone back to the Dacha. The Grantville Section was, so far, not doing all that well. Boris was having organizational problems. Pavel Borisovich, his eldest son, shook his head at him. \"They won't authorize his transfer, Father.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Boris felt he was asking the question with considerable restraint.\n\nHis son shrugged. \"The official reason or the real reason?\"\n\n\"The official one; I know the real one.\" The real reason was resentment. The patriarch had gotten Boris the Grantville Section and a reasonable budget. That only fueled the resentment. There were other people who were in line for the promotion; people with better family connections. That would normally mean that if a new section was established, those people might reasonably expect to be selected to head it up. Assistant section chiefs\u2014in and out of the embassy bureau\u2014were angry that Boris had been jumped a rank.\n\n\"Priorities.\" Pavel squinted and hunched over as though he expected a strong wind.\n\n\"I was given to understand that we had a rather high priority?\" Boris tried to keep his voice calm. Perhaps too calm.\n\n\"I'm just passing on what I was told.\" Pavel waved the report, then began to read. \"'Because of the requirements of the grain shipments to Sweden, Yuri Petrovich Gorbochov is desperately needed to expedite the harvest in the Gdansk region.'\"\n\n\"They picked one that has a higher priority than we do.\" Boris had to give that section chief credit. It was cleverly done anyway. There might even be some truth to it.\n\n\"Father, I'm not sure you do know the real reason. At least not all of them. I was talking to Petr Somovich. He said that a lot of people are starting to be afraid that this is a job that leads nowhere. Bernie is popular enough, though some of the healers are pretty upset with him. Not that much has come out of the Dacha yet. The scrapers, if they turn out to be useful, and a few other things. We have some books that mostly don't make sense, not even to people who do speak English. Who cares that someone named Audubon painted birds? Russia has real issues to deal with.\"\n\n\"I know, Son.\" Boris had to concede that some of the objections to working with the Dacha crew seemed to be valid. Among the other things that Boris had brought back was an up-time copy of the first book of the _Encyclopedia International_ , 1963 edition, that had been in someone's garage. They had refused the outright sale of the books but had rented them to Vladimir and his friends for an outrageous sum. \"But you never know what might combine with something else to solve a problem. We saw it again and again in Grantville. There would be an article on something that they needed but it would be missing some vital piece of information. Then that needed piece of information would show up in the biography about the man who discovered it. Something like where he was when he found the first deposit of some rare earth.\"\n\n\"So you decided to send a copy of everything. I know, Father. I even agree.\" Pavel's face was serious, his dark eyes intent. \"That doesn't change the fact that spending the next ten years of their lives translating minutia about people who will never even be born seems a pointless, career-ending job to most people.\"\n\nBoris sighed. \"I had hoped it would be more popular. It is a secure position, doing important work, if not the most exciting. A safe place in the bureaus.\"\n\n\"That's the problem, Father.\" Pavel shrugged. \"It's not secure unless the Grantville Section becomes secure.\"\n\nBoris was left with an office and a budget and not nearly enough people who read and wrote English and Russian. The budget . . . for the moment he had plenty of money. Well, lands. The government of Russia ran on a formalized barter system because there was not nearly enough money to support the economy they had. That would be changing soon. The Assembly of the Land and the _Boyar_ _Duma_ were almost agreed on the form the Czar's Bank would take.\n\nThe delay in the formation of the Czar's Bank wasn't caused just by the haggling over who got what. There was plenty of that, to be sure, but the politicians were also waiting for more excerpts from up-time economics books. They all wanted the money to work, even the fair number of boyars and other officials who didn't believe that paper money would ever be worth anything.\n\n* * *\n\nTwo days after Boris got back he had a visit from Princess Natalia. She came to his home, had tea with his wife, and talked to him about getting Andrei Korisov out of her Dacha.\n\n\"I don't care that much that he is no doubt spying for Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev or one of that clan. Anyway, they have other spies, I don't doubt. It's what he's doing with the servants of the Dacha. They are terrified to go near his little shop for fear of being drafted to pull a trigger on the latest of his experiments.\"\n\n\"Is he getting results?\"\n\nNatasha sighed. \"Yes, I think so, and so does Bernie. Not that Bernie is any more pleased about his methods than I am. Bernie and Filip worked up a string and pulley system for pulling the trigger and a paper cage to measure the outgassing.\n\n\"Andrei Korisov thanked them for the paper cage because it gives a more accurate read on the direction of force than a screaming, running peasant does. He just grunted about the string and pulley system for bench-firing the rifle. Apparently, saving peasants from maiming or death is not an issue of concern. Bernie, just back from Moscow and the slow plague, wanted to kill him and I wanted to let him. Even Filip was upset, and you know how conservative he is.\"\n\nWhich Boris actually didn't, but he nodded anyway. It was what you did when a princess told you that you knew something you hadn't known. \"So, Princess, clearly you have something in mind?\" he asked when she had run down a little.\n\n\"Yes. I want to give him to the army or to the Grantville desk. Anywhere. I don't really care. I just want him out of the Dacha. Bernie will still consult on weapons development and maybe the army can find him some criminals to pull his triggers for him. As long as they aren't my people, I don't really care.\"\n\nThis was a very natural thing for a member of the nobility to say, though Boris knew most up-timers wouldn't think so. There was a certain coldness that came with the territory. Let the monster go kill other people if it was inconvenient to stop him, just so long as they weren't her people.\n\n\"If you try to give him to me, the bureaus will scream,\" Boris said with some regret. There were contracts to be had, not just with the main army but with the _Streltzi_ of all the towns and cities in Russia. \"I would suggest you give him to the _Streltzi_ bureau, and through them to the army. They will be thrilled.\"\n\nWhich was what they ended up doing. The Gun Shop, as it came to be known, was placed at another small town about thirty miles south of Moscow and about twenty miles away from the Dacha. If there was need, they could get in touch with the Gun Shop or it could get in touch with them. And in the meantime, Andrei Korisov was out of Natasha's hair and no danger to her servants.\n**Chapter 20**\n\n**_July 1632_**\n\n\"Order Kameroff to take his battalion to the west.\" Bernie grinned as the barely bearded Russian wearing two stars on his collar moved his finger along the map, over a set of hills then northwest along a river. \"He is to take dispatch riders and notify us at the first sign of the enemy.\"\n\nThis was not the war games Bernie had played as a kid. There was no fog of war in _Afrika Corps_ , or the other war games Bernie played. There, everyone could see what the other side was doing. Not in this game, which had been designed by army officers instead of geeks.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the veteran with the graying beard halfway down his chest and a single bar on his collar. There was probably a bit of amusement in his voice. But if the \"general\" felt any offense at that amusement, he kept it to himself.\n\nThe \"lieutenant\" left to deliver the orders. The \"general's\" sigh was barely audible. This was his first time in the war room and he was clearly trying hard to keep up a good front.\n\nIt was Bernie's first time in the war room, too. Bernie had told some of the guardsmen at the Dacha about war games and football last winter. He'd drawn plays on a slate, and a small hex grid map on another. The guards had been less interested in the football plays than in the grid map. Perhaps because the grid map war game was a game that involved dice. And in Russia, in winter, playing dice was something to do. Anyway, Bernie had spent many evenings with the guards and the serving maids building a simple war game for the guards to play and insisting that the maids should be allowed to play if they wanted to.\n\nThe guards gave in pretty easily. The girls were pretty, after all. The game was based on some battle that Ivan the Terrible had fought. The guards told Bernie the situation, how many troops of what kind Ivan had, how many the enemy had, the terrain, the supply situation, stuff like that, sometimes consulting with Father Kiril, a priest and historian, to get the details right. As they gave Bernie details, he would fold them into the game. The supply situation became supply units that had to travel back and forth to the front. Terrain was added to the map and restricted movements, till they had something approaching a working game.\n\nThen Bernie had gotten busy with other stuff and forgotten about it. The guards, a couple of the maids and Father Kiril hadn't. They had taken the game and continued to refine it, added other maps and other battles. The guards had told their friends in the Russian military about it and word had gotten to the generals, who in turn became interested in it as a teaching tool for young officers and some not so young. It had become quite the rage in the Kremlin.\n\nGeneral Mikhail Borisovich Shein, the hero of the defense of Smolensk who had avoided being the goat of the Smolensk War only by the intercession of up-timer records, said the games by themselves were the next best thing to useless, perhaps even worse than useless. Still, when combined with the experience of senior officers, they would allow the learning of war with much less loss of blood. So he had let them be played and even incorporated them, with modifications, of course, into the training of his officers.\n\nGeneral Shein wanted the fog of war in the games. So the official games were played in three rooms\u2014the commander of one force in one room, the commander of the other force in another, and finally the judges in a third. This way the players could see only their troops and not all of them. Only the judges in the third room could see it all.\n\nBernie thought that sounded neat, but obviously entailed a great deal of work. It _was_ a lot of work, but almost nothing compared to the actual moving of troops and staging mock battles. He looked back at the kids doing their planning on the game board.\n\n\"General\" Ivan Milosevic was clearly a very nervous kid, as well he should be. Bernie had been briefed over beers last night. The lad had been cleaning up at the standard games, with his partner in crime, Boris Timofeivich, acting as the bank and the person the bets were made with.\n\nThe members of the service nobility didn't choose to believe that a lowly baker's son would be able to beat them at a game so clearly based on the arts of war. Yet the boys had been cleaning up, and because Timofeivich was not just service nobility but a member of a cadet branch of one of the great houses, they were finding it difficult to welsh when they lost. Clearly, the lads must be cheating somehow, else the arrogant little baker's boy would have been losing. Either that or the games were not an accurate reflection of real war. Well, they probably weren't, Bernie figured, but that wasn't why the members of the service nobility were getting their clocks cleaned by the kid. The kid was good.\n\nThe \"general\" looked over at the \"captain,\" Timofeivich, then back at the map. It was a carefully drawn map of western Russia, Lithuania and eastern Poland, that had elevation lines in some places and little humps drawn for hills and trees drawn for forests in others.\n\nOne of the things that Vladimir had sent\u2014before he'd sent Bernie, in fact\u2014was a map-making kit. The Russians had been putting it to good use. It and quite a few copies of it. The kit wasn't that much. A pair of sighting devices that could be placed at a known distance from one another. A compass and plumb bob for each device so that the direction each was pointed could be determined precisely. And something for them both to look at, a stick stuck in the ground some distance off. The rest was recording and calculation. Dictatorships do have their advantages. It wasn't hard for the czar and _Boyar_ _Duma_ to order the maps made in this new way and to have survey teams trained. The new maps were a combination of the surveys and the maps they already had. Even though several hundred people had been put to work on the project, the results were as yet spotty. Very good right around Moscow where the teams were trained and along the rivers where the surveys were concentrated, not so good in forests where it took more work.\n\nHence the contour lines here and little trees over there. The map was actually fairly pretty. Which was beside the point. Ivan pointed at a hill, just a little bump drawn on the map. \"If it's high enough,\" he said, \"we'll build a temporary fort here . . .\"\n\nWhile Ivan talked, Bernie looked at the map and nodded. He hadn't seen it till Ivan had pointed it out, but it was clear enough now. If they were going to be attacked, that would be one of the ways that the attack might come. If the map was accurate, the other ways would be easier to reach and see from up there. The kids really were good at the games. But Bernie had no idea how well that would translate into being good at war.\n\nThe \"lieutenant,\" Gorgii Ameroff, came back into the room and nodded to Bernie. Gorgii was an old veteran and had seen war firsthand. He also had his doubts about how well the skills of the gaming room would translate into the field. As best as Bernie could tell, Gorgii was a staff officer looking after the training of young officers under the command of a higher officer.\n\nBernie wasn't sure, but from Gorgii's expression the kids were doing pretty well and Gorgii didn't quite know how to take that. Totally aside from his youth, the fact that Ivan was from a modest family, more merchant class than nobility, annoyed Gorgii. Bernie knew Gorgii was still trying to work out how he felt about that. It just didn't seem right that this baker's son would have such talent or potential. The changes brought on by the Ring of Fire were disturbing.\n\nThe question wasn't just how well the games would translate into real battle, but also how much practice at war could be gained. Stories told around campfires of battles fought a generation ago didn't necessarily translate all that well to the real world. But they were a real part of teaching the young men the art of war. With the games, a young student might command in a month the same number of battles he would fight in a dozen years of service. Experience, even the sort of pseudo-experience provided by the games, might make the difference between seeing or missing a danger or an opportunity on which a battle might be won or lost.\n\nBernie waved to Gorgii and quietly left the room. He needed to get back to the Dacha.\n**Chapter 21**\n\nBernie was going nuts. After all his talk about the joys of decadent civilization, he had failed to provide the decadent civilization. It had taken a while to get the parts to the new bathroom made. Now they were made and installed, but there were still a multitude of problems. And the brain cases wanted to know why. Heck, the brain cases wanted to know why _everything_. Bernie had tried to explain and run headlong into a massive wall of ignorance and arrogance. Mostly, but not entirely, his own.\n\n\"What is a gravity feed?\" Filip Pavlovich asked. \"How can one make water grave and serious? Water does not flow because it is serious. Water flows because water wants to return to its proper level, just as Aristotle said two thousand years ago. So to make this 'seriousness feed' the book speaks of, you would have to make the water serious. How do you do that?\" Bernie was pretty sure that Filip Pavlovich was having a bit of fun at his expense, but there was a core of truth in the complaint. He'd run into the philosophers' faith in Aristotle before. It was akin to their faith in God.\n\n\"It didn't say water falls because it is serious.\" Bernie tried clenching his teeth and counting to ten. \"It said that the force of gravity causes it to fall. It didn't say anything about water being serious, for crying out loud. The force of gravity is a force of nature. Oh, hell . . . never mind. Let me think a minute.\"\n\nBernie stormed away from the workshop. He wasn't completely sure about it, but from the timing and some of the symptoms he'd seen in Moscow, the \"slow fever,\" whatever its proper name was, seemed likely to be transmitted by bad water. If that was true, then indoor plumbing, septic systems, and getting human waste away from things like drinking water or washing water, might mean the difference between hundreds of people dying of \"slow fever\" every spring and maybe none dying.\n\nHe had never thought himself arrogant. He just figured that among people who thought there were only six planets, he'd do all right. He'd tell them how to make stuff and they would. The problem was, Bernie didn't really know how to make stuff. He had quite a bit of the knowledge needed, but he had no idea how to put it together into a form that would produce a product.\n\nThat should have been all right. There were a number of very bright, very creative, people at the Dacha. They had been arriving a few at a time. However, as yet there was very little crossover between what Bernie knew and what they knew. Their map of the world and his were so different that communicating, even with a good translator, was difficult.\n\nRight at the moment, the problem was with the toilets. The manuals talked about a gravity feed. To the local experts, gravity meant \"dignity or sobriety of bearing.\" In fact, though Bernie didn't know it, the gravity feed was something they already understood quite well. However, the terms were different. They would have called it a \"natural flow feed\" or something similar. That would have referred to Aristotle's assertion that there were natural and unnatural types of motion. Water flowing downhill was natural motion. There was no force that made things fall. Things fell because things had a natural desire to go where they belonged. Steam went into the air and rocks onto the ground because that's where they belonged. Water, as was the case here, just naturally wanted to travel to the lowest point. Granted, Galileo had chipped around the edges of Aristotle, but just around the edges. Besides, few people here had read Galileo.\n\nBernie didn't know it, but an extension of this Aristotelian world view had led to many of the concepts that the up-timers thought of as superstition. After all, if water just naturally wanted to flow downhill, didn't it make sense that a wheel would just naturally want to turn, that a candle would just naturally want to burn? That any device that was made well enough would want to perform its natural function and, given the opportunity, would do so on its own? And if water had a natural desire to flow downhill, what about people? Was it not self-evident that people were innately good or innately evil? Innately superior or innately inferior, good blood, bad blood?\n\nIt was a subtle but profound difference in the way people thought about the world. The early modern period, the period the Ring of Fire had thrust the West Virginia mining town into, was when that notion of a world where things did what they did because it was their nature to do so was being replaced\u2014slowly, one chip at a time\u2014with the notion that things happened because of external forces like gravity and drag. But it hadn't happened yet. It would have been Newton who really shifted the world view and he hadn't been born yet. Now, because of the Ring of Fire, he wouldn't be born at all in this universe. Here it would be Grantville that the change spun on, and the change would come much faster. Worse, Russia, in general, was lagging about two hundred years behind the rest of Europe.\n\nBernie didn't know any of that; he didn't even know that Aristotle had gotten it wrong. He knew Newton had some laws\u2014three, he thought. He sort of thought that Einstein had gotten it right and corrected the bits that Newton had gotten wrong with his theory of relativity. That was how the A-bomb worked. More importantly, Bernie didn't know that the problems sprang from a difference in world view. Half the time he thought the people at the Dacha were playing with him. Half the time he thought they were idiots, and half the time he thought he must be the idiot. There were too many halves of Russia and not nearly enough working toilets. At the moment there weren't _any_ working toilets.\n\nBernie entered the kitchen of the dacha and sat at the table. \"Marpa Pavlovna, may I have a beer, please?\" When the cook nodded, Bernie leaned back and tried to figure out how to explain gravity.\n\nThe cook handed him a beer. His \"thanks\" was a bit absentminded. She also put a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches in front of him. He'd had a little trouble explaining that no, he didn't want to stop work in the middle of the day and have a big meal, then take a nap. It was weird. Everybody in Russia took a siesta in the middle of the day. Bernie had thought that only happened in, like, Mexico. Well, not totally weird. Moscow in summer was as hot as Mexico, or at least he thought it was. Bernie didn't have a thermometer. Bernie knew good and well that they could make a thermometer here but he needed an up-time thermometer to get temperature to make the marks on the thermometer made here. Not that he really needed a thermometer right now. What he needed was a plumber and the nearest one of those was in Grantville.\n\nBernie rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to ease the headache he invariably got when he tried to explain a complex concept to Filip Pavlovich. In a few moments a pair of cool-feeling hands began rubbing his temples for him. Bernie leaned back against the chair and let one of the maids, Fayina Lukyanovna, take over. One of the things Boris had not lied about was the availability of willing women. Unfortunately, though, the woman who was increasingly working her way into his fantasies was unavailable. Bernie couldn't quite imagine Natasha rubbing his temples for him. Well, he could imagine it, all too easily, but it wasn't going to happen.\n\n\"What is now, Bernie?\" Fayina's voice was low, gentle. \"'Sewer system' again?\"\n\nGravity was the least of his problems with the sewer system. Bernie had arrived at the Dacha with complete designs for a toilet and complete designs for a septic system. But it wasn't working right. The toilet had backed up, the sink had backed up, the bathtub had backed up. Each and every one of them was producing the most awful stinks it had ever been his misfortune to smell. He couldn't use the indoor bathroom anymore. The room had been closed off and some pretty horrible sounds came from it. Bernie was pretty sure that the problem was in the septic system or in the pipes. He had finally remembered the U-shaped pipes just below the sinks. He had had those installed and that had seemed to fix it for a little while. But then things got worse.\n\n\"I don't know how to fix it.\" Bernie groaned. \"God, your hands feel good. The bathroom is going to drive me crazy until I figure it out.\"\n\n\"Princess Natalia Petrovna wishes to speak to you.\" Fayina stopped rubbing his temples. She was dark-haired and short, well-padded. He noticed that she was wearing one of those crown-looking headdresses with her hair loose. Customs were different here. Confusing. Single women wore a smaller headdress than married women and left their hair loose. Married women kept their hair covered all the time. \"New books have arrived from Grantville.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"I have good news for you, at any rate,\" Natasha said. \"Here. You have letters. I have letters, as well. And more books. Perhaps the answer will be in the new books.\"\n\nBernie took his stack of letters, wondering who had written him. Dad wasn't much of a letter writer and his sisters were busy. The handwriting on the top one was vaguely familiar. And the envelopes, some of them, were from up-time. Bernie opened the first one carefully and read:\n\n_Dear Bernie,_\n\n_Thanks for recommending me to the Princess Natasha. What's she look like, by the way?_\n\n_I just wanted to let you know that I sent her a_ Victoria's Secret _plus some other stuff. So the consequences to Russian culture are on you. Anything else you want me to send them? I don't think the library has a copy of the_ Communist Manifesto _, but I'll see if I can find Mao's_ Little Red Book _if you like._\n\n__\n\nBernie's reading stuttered to a stop as a sudden vision of Natasha in a black teddy swam before his eyes. With some effort, he brought himself back to the letter.\n\n_Also, your whole family is fine but still a bit pissed about your crawling into a bottle and running off to Russia after your mom died. Bernie, I know it was hard on you and your family does too, but, well, the world's not a nice place sometimes. Deal with it._\n\nBernie snorted. It was good advice, he knew, but he figured that Brandy Bates ought to be taking it, not just giving it.\n\n_I don't know if you were sober enough to notice but Grantville was turning into a boom town even before you left and you're not the only guy that got hired away. Folks are getting rich right and left. I don't know how, but they are. I'm still working at Club 250 which sucks, but what can you do. A lot of the folks that got rich since the Ring of Fire have bought estates in the country with servants and the whole bit. But for every one that moves out, two or three down-timers move in. Then there are the tourists! Grantville is more crowded than ever. There's talk of people moving factories to Halle because the Saale's closer to navigable that far down river. Others are talking about going all the way to the Elbe. But people are nervous about getting too far from Grantville._\n\n_Anyway, things are happening here even if it does seem it's all skipping past me and Mom. Write me, and tell me what else I can do to save Russia from male shovanism._\n\n_ Good Luck._\n\n_ Brandy._\n\n\"Thank God.\" It was a relief to read something that wasn't an encyclopedia, Bernie thought, utterly failing to notice that Brandy had misspelled chauvinism. \"Someone who speaks my kind of English. Natasha, when can I send a letter back to Grantville?\"\n\nNatasha looked up from her own letters. \"The courier will leave tomorrow. You can send a letter with him.\" Bernie knew Natasha didn't approve of his tendency to sit in the kitchen. She was also the reason he was growing a beard, even though it itched. He still wasn't going to wear some silly robe out in public, though, no matter how much she nagged at him.\n\n\"Good. I'll get right on it and have Gregorii make a drawing as well.\" Gregorii Mikhailovich was the artist whose job it was to take Bernie's descriptions and very rough sketches and turn them into usable drawings. \"Brandy can probably find out what I've done wrong. It's a darn good thing your brother stayed in Grantville. When I've finished the letter, I'll take a look through the books and stuff he sent. Maybe I can figure out how to explain gravity.\"\n\n\"Seriousness?\" Natasha's voice was curious. \"Don't they know what seriousness is?\"\n\nBernie groaned. Then headed back to face the brain cases.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Bernie Janovich, what is the center of gravity?\" Petr Nickovich had been waiting impatiently while Bernie was out of the room. His English was not good and the discussion of gravity was more confusing than helpful. He knew there was something there because the notes he had received on flight mentioned gravity regularly. Center of gravity, specifically. He sat and thought, giving no sign how much it hurt him not to understand about gravity and how to fly. Finally, Bernie returned with the letters and Petr asked his question before the sewer system could distract them again.\n\n\"Hey, I actually know that one.\" Bernie grinned at Petr. \"Cars need a low center of gravity for stability.\"\n\nPetr just looked at him. As usual, Bernie hadn't explained anything.\n\nBernie lost his grin. \"Okay. Try it this way. Bend over.\" Bernie bent over. \"As your head moves forward, your rear end moves backward, otherwise you fall on your face. That's to keep your center of gravity over your feet.\" Bernie stood up again. \"Try to balance something on one finger. It's the same thing. To keep it balanced, you have to keep your finger under the center of gravity.\"\n\n\"You mean that center of gravity just means the point of balance?\" Petr couldn't help his look of shock. \"The place where you would place the fulcrum?\"\n\nThe outlander shrugged. \"Pretty much.\"\n\nPetr considered, then asked. \"Then why does how high the center of gravity is matter?\"\n\n\"There is other stuff besides gravity. Centrifugal force and stuff.\"\n\n\"Explain that, if you would.\" Petr tried not to grit his teeth. He knew he was close to something but wasn't sure what. He listened to Bernie's rambling explanation. It was there he knew, if he could just grasp it. The secret to everything. It came in bits and drabs . . . gravity was a force like centrifugal force. Then another piece when Bernie squared his stance and had someone push from the side. The person pushing on him to try to overbalance him was a force. The key came when he asked why they used rockets to get to the moon. \"Why not wings?\"\n\n\"No air in space.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Gravity,\" an obviously frustrated Bernie insisted.\n\nPetr froze. He could see it in his mind's eye. \"How much does air weigh?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" Bernie shrugged. \"It's pretty light; we can look it up. Uh . . . maybe not, but we can write Vladimir about it.\"\n\nThe outlander didn't realize. How _much_ air weighed didn't really matter. What mattered was _that_ air weighed. That it had weight. It was pulled down to the ground by a force; water was, too, but more so. They wouldn't have to look the weight of air up, Petr could think of several ways to work it out. Looking it up might be easier if it was in one of the books. The important point was that air had weight. That was how the balloons worked. That was how it _all_ worked.\n\n* * *\n\nVesuvius erupted. Russian words spewed forth. Bernie didn't understand. Didn't want to understand after he caught the Russian words for \"idiot\" and \"uncultured\" repeated several times. At least this time everyone was an uncultured idiot, not just Bernie. Which was a relief. Everyone, Petr included, everyone from Adam to Aristotle . . . especially Aristotle. Everyone in the entire history of the world, both histories. Only two exceptions could be made: God and Sir Isaac Newton. God for creating such a complex world from such beautiful simplicity and Sir Isaac Newton for understanding it.\n\n\"Don't you understand, you uncultured buffoons? We can fly!\"\n\n\"What in blazes are you talking about?\" Filip Pavlovich was not one to accept being called an idiot by anyone. \"Of course we can fly, once we know how. If the outlanders from the future could do it, we can learn to do it.\" He froze then. \"You know how?\"\n\n\"It's all forces, don't you see . . . damn Aristotle to the worst region of hell. Innate desire. Natural tendency. Bah . . . it's forces. Water is heavy, air is light, the force of gravity works better on heavy than light, that's what makes it heavy.\"\n\nBernie almost laughed at the man's odd combination of enthusiasm and exasperation. \"Think you can explain a gravity-feed system to these guys, Petr?\" he asked, half-jokingly.\n\n\" _Da_ ,\" followed by about three sentences in Russian said too fast for Bernie to understand. Which led in turn to several voices from around the room saying, \"Oh, we understood that part! We thought he was talking about something else.\" Bernie just shook his head and left the geeks to their talk. Somehow, he couldn't stop grinning. These guys got such a charge out of this stuff. Now maybe they could get the plumbing to work.\n\n* * *\n\nThat night, instead of studying, Bernie wrote a letter to Brandy Bates.\n\n_Hello, Brandy_\n\n_If you really want to change Russia send me instructions for fixing the plumbing. Creating the plumbing, rather. They have a disease here that they call slow fever. It lasts a month or more with the fever getting worse and the people getting weaker. I watched a little boy and a lot of other people die of it this spring. We've sent its pathology to Prince Vladimir in hopes that he can find out what it is and how it's cured from the up-timer docs. But diarrhea is one of its main symptoms and I figure it's getting into the water supply and spreading that way._\n\n_I got to tell you, Brandy, these folks don't wash much. Steam baths, sure. Washing your hands before you prepare food? Not so much. Washing dishes is pretty slapdash, too. I already had that fight with the kitchen staff here at the Dacha and won it, with the support of Princess Natasha. Working after school at the Burger Barn has paid off._\n\n_Anyway, if we want to stop the slow fever and probably a lot of other deaths, we need hot running water, hand soap, and toilets. I tried putting a septic system in here at the Dacha and it isn't working. I haven't been able to figure out what's wrong but . . ._\n\nBernie spent the next three pages describing in great boring detail what he had had installed and the symptoms of its failure.\n\n_Brandy, I'd write this on my knees if I thought it would help. Please find someone there in town who can tell us how to make this work. You'll be saving lives if you do._\n\n_ Bernie Zeppi_\n**Chapter 22**\n\nFreshly ensconced in his new kingdom, Andrei Korisov didn't hear about the new understanding of gravity in the Dacha. He wouldn't have cared that much anyway, because it didn't change ballistics, just the reason they worked. If he had cared at all, it would have been to be concerned about the allocation of resources away from his guns to flight. That, however, was no longer a problem. He had his own resources now. Well, he was in charge of them. Which was the same thing. He went back to working on the Andrei Korisov rifle.\n\nThe mechanics of holding the chamber in place while allowing it to rotate up and out for reloading weren't very complex, but they were an added complication. The gimbal was constantly breaking under the stress of firing, then having to be redesigned and strengthened again. Andrei was sure he was missing something. He went out to the range, where one of the apprentice gunsmiths was testing the latest version. Andrei had decided to go with a smaller bore and a shorter barrel, mostly for ease of construction. He would use much tighter rifling and count on the greater spin to keep the smaller bullet accurate. But that wasn't what these tests were about.\n\nThese tests were to determine how much wear was caused by the outgassing. They would fire one hundred shots, then measure the wear on the protective plate Andrei had installed. It was still basically a Russian muzzle-loader with the back five inches of the barrel sawed off, but some things had been added. A heavy iron gimbal had been added to let the firing chamber be rotated up for loading and back down into alignment, and Andrei's protective plate, a relatively thin piece of curved iron, had been inserted into the stock where the firing chamber muzzle almost touched the open back of the barrel.\n\nOleg had the new rifle clamped to the bench and was using the string and pulley system to test fire the rifle. Andrei watched as the boy pulled the string and the rifle fired. Then Oleg made a mark in a slate. Fourteen shots since the start of the test. It was going a little faster than Andrei had thought it would.\n\nOleg went over to the rifle and pulled out the spent chamber and put in another one. He poured a little powder into the pan, cocked the lock, and went back behind the bench and pulled the string. The rifle fired again. The chamber slammed against the back plate and the stock cracked. The stocks weren't handling the strain.\n\n\"Where did you get that chamber?\" Andrei shouted.\n\n\"Which one?\" Oleg asked, then continued quickly, seeing it was his boss, \"One is from this rifle, sir, and the other one is from the last one. It's quicker to load the two chambers together, then just switch them out. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to.\"\n\n\"How do you get one chamber out to put in the next?\" Andrei asked.\n\n\"After the gimbal broke. Ah . . . they do that a lot,\" Oleg said, clearly anxious not to be blamed for breaking the gimbal. \"It was just easier to put the chamber in by hand than fix the gimbal every time.\"\n\nBut Andrei wasn't concerned with that. He had just found the key to making the rate of fire for the Andrei Korisov rifle much higher, at least for a short while. A chamber was a lot shorter than a barrel and a lot easier to make. He could make several chambers for each rifled musket. The soldier could carry them loaded and have several fairly quick shots before having to reload the chambers.\n\n* * *\n\nIt was weeks later that he realized that the chamber didn't have to be the same shape as the barrel. At least in its outer dimensions. And he still hadn't realized how necessary it was to have the chamber holder attached to something.\n**Chapter 23**\n\n**_Grantville_**\n\n**_August 1632_**\n\n\"Well, the problem is that we can't foreclose on it.\" Dori Ann Grooms hesitated and Vladimir saw the blush rise. \"I'm sorry. That really wasn't the best way to put it, Herr Gorchakov. What I mean was that your collateral is simply too far away for the Bank of Grantville to accept it as surety for a loan. It's not like it was in the old, ah, new, back up-time. And even then there would have been issues with using property in a different country.\"\n\nVladimir nodded. He'd thought that might be the answer, but it had been worth a try. He needed more money, cash on hand. Most of his family's wealth was tied up in land. Much of the rest was tied up in the Dacha research center. \"Do you have any suggestions, then?\"\n\nDori Ann shook her head. \"Edgar said you might have better luck with the Abrabanel Bank. Seems like they've got agents everywhere.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe young man ushered Vladimir into Uriel Abrabanel's office in the Bank of Badenburg, closed the door and left. Uriel was behind the desk, while Don Francisco Nasi sat in a corner and grinned.\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Vladimir was clearly unprepared to discover that Don Francisco would be sitting in on his conference with the president and primary owner of the first down-time bank to become a member of the New U.S. Federal Reserve System.\n\nDon Francisco waved reassurance. \"I'm not here to interfere in your business with Cousin Uriel, Prince Vladimir.\" He smiled at the look on Vladimir's face.\n\n\"You do understand that I will not . . .\"\n\n\"Betray your people? Please. Do I look like John George of Saxony?\" Francisco waved away the whole idea. \"All that is going on here is that when I learned of your appointment with Uriel, I decided to take the opportunity for a semi-private meeting. But I am more than willing to wait my turn. Please go on with your banking.\"\n\nThen for a while Francisco mostly watched as Vladimir and Uriel discussed banking matters. He did put in a comment here and there. \"Vladimir's Dacha has already produced half a dozen products that are being licensed to various groups in Russia. Are you sure, Cousin, that speculative venture is the right description?\" That got Francisco a dirty look from his elder cousin. And a curious one from Vladimir.\n\nThen, some time later, Francisco said, \"Paper rubles with the printing in the hands of the _Boyar_ _Duma_? No disrespect intended, Vladimir, but the czar's cabinet isn't exactly known for its restraint.\"\n\n\"A lot of that was simply not being aware of the consequences. Printing gobs of money would not benefit the great houses,\" Vladimir said.\n\n\"If they realize that and if they care,\" Uriel said. \"Printing gobs of money, as you put it, may not be good for the economy but in the short run it can be very good for the printers. Even if they show restraint, determining the amount of money needed to run the economy without causing hyper-inflation is no easy task. Not even with computers. I can't avoid the conclusion that accepting payment in the czar's paper would be a speculative investment. I really have to insist on New U.S. dollars.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSo it went for about two hours. Francisco mostly watched the exchange, and kept Uriel from skinning the Russian prince too badly. Vladimir wasn't as good at this as he apparently thought he was. But, finally, agreement was reached and Vladimir was provided with a letter of credit.\n\nAt which point, by prior arrangement, Uriel excused himself and it was Francisco's turn.\n\n\"The reason I invited myself to your meeting was that I wanted to talk to you about where you think the alliance between Sweden and Russia is headed. Also what role you see the New U.S. playing in those relations.\"\n\nAt first Vladimir demurred, pointing out that primarily his mission had to do with information that was mostly free for the asking, from the National Library and the Research Center.\n\nNasi grinned. \"That is true enough, but incomplete. Yes, your shop is getting most of its information from legal sources, but you are also involved in what the up-timers call 'industrial espionage.' For instance, the sewing machine that went to Moscow with Bernie Zeppi was accompanied by rather copious notes on how it was made and what machines would be needed to make more. And your tour of the power plant was unusually focused on their new steam engines.\"\n\nVladimir smiled. \"The twins were more than happy to explain how it was done. It isn't like I broke into their factory in the middle of the night and stole the designs. And as for the tour of the power plant, that was all perfectly legal.\"\n\n\"And Fedor Ivanovich Trotsky? Is he also staying within the bounds of law?\" Nasi laughed at Vladimir's expression.\n\n\"Never mind. Trotsky is competent but unimaginative. We aren't that worried about him. However, I'm not here to threaten or browbeat you. I have an offer to make. I can provide you with information that Trotsky would find difficult to gather and all I want in return is the same consideration. Please consider my offer. There are things I won't tell you, but I won't lie to you unless absolutely necessary. All I ask from you is the same courtesy.\"\n\n\"I think I understand,\" Vladimir said. \"However, I'm just a part-time spy. Little more than an apprentice. You'll have to be more explicit.\"\n\n\"Because of its situation, Grantville has a large group of spies working here. When you combine that with the ease of transferring information provided by the phones and computers, you get a situation ripe for counterespionage. The fact is that spies tend to know a lot about what their employers have in mind, both because you tell something every time you ask a question and because if a spy lacked curiosity he'd probably have gone into another line of work. Put it all together and you have a whole other reason to come to Grantville to spy. Information is our stock in trade. We trade it amongst ourselves. So a spy for Monsieur Gaston and one of Cardinal Richelieu's _intendants_ , while not fond of each other, might trade information about the actions of Spain and Sweden. And each benefits by being able to inform their employer both bits of information.\"\n\nVladimir nodded sagely and Don Francisco grinned at him.\n\n\"All of which puts you in a most enviable position,\" Don Francisco said.\n\n\"Ah, how?\" was all Vladimir could come up with.\n\n\"Because with only a few exceptions, nobody cares what Russia knows about anything,\" Don Francisco said bluntly. \"Poland, certainly. England, if it has to do with trade. Sweden, if it's to do with the grain Russia sells to the king of Sweden every year at very low prices. Other than that? No. If you should learn Spain's military dispositions for the next two years the king of Spain would lose not a wink of sleep over it. Cardinal Richelieu's upset would be strictly a matter of principle and what the cardinal doesn't know won't hurt him. Ferdinand II, under other circumstances perhaps. But between the Lion of the North and the Turk to the south?\" Nasi shook his head. \"Russia barely makes a blip on the radar.\"\n\nNone of which was very complimentary but all of which Vladimir had to acknowledge was true. He nodded reluctantly. \"And this situation is enviable how?\"\n\n\"Because as a spy who must report back to the embassy bureau you have every reason to be asking the sorts of questions that will make you look good to Moscow and there is very little reason for people to be unwilling to answer them. I, on the other hand, am all too well known as an associate of Mike Stearns.\" Nasi gave a histrionic sigh. \"No one wants to talk to me.\"\n\nVladimir barked a laugh. \"So you want me to gather information and give it to you instead of my government.\"\n\n\"Oh, not at all. In addition to, not instead of,\" Nasi said. Which was precisely what Vladimir thought he was going to say.\n\n\"And for providing you with a carbon copy of the information, you will provide me what?\"\n\n\"Why, carbon copies of the information I gather about places like Poland and England. And occasionally I'll be able to direct you to people who won't talk to me, but will talk to you.\"\n\n\"I see a problem,\" Vladimir said. \"No one is going to be all that surprised that you happened to be visiting your cousin while I came seeing about a loan . . . once. But if we keep meeting like this, what will it do to my reputation as a titled nonentity? People might stop talking to me. That would be a disaster for me and inconvenient for you.\"\n\n\"That's what makes Grantville such a nice place with its phones and computers.\"\n\n\"Even I know the phone system has been penetrated,\" Vladimir said. \"If you start calling me a lot or I start calling you a lot, someone will notice.\"\n\n\"That's where the computers come into play. You know that the local nodes of the internet came through. There is in Grantville a local area network that covers the town and several outlying areas. You can post encrypted information to various sites and no one will the wiser about who is posting what. There's also an encryption program that is called _Pretty Good Privacy_ that came though the Ring of Fire. Apparently it was free for anyone up-time. I understand you bought a computer?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" That was one reason that Vladimir had needed the loan. He knew that they were only going to get more expensive for the foreseeable future.\n\nNasi passed him one of the compact disks. It was unlabeled in its jewel case. \"On that disk is a copy of the program _Pretty Good Privacy_ including the source code and one of my public keys.\"\n\n\"What's a public key?\"\n\n\"The thing that makes this such a good system is that it has two keys. One key encodes and the other decodes. What you encode with the public key can only be read with the private key. What is encoded by the private key can only be read with the matching public key. I would suggest that after you've had the program checked you make yourself some keys and post a key to one of the message boards listed on the CD. Encode it using the public key I included on the CD and only I will be able to read it, so you know that any message using that key is from me.\"\n\nThey talked about processes and procedures, which mostly came down to neither seeking each other out nor avoiding each other. They would use the local area internet in Grantville to transfer data. For the foreseeable future if anyone wanted to transfer information without anyone else knowing they were doing it, Grantville was the place to be. In effect, each became a part of the other's spy network. For Nasi it was one more tiny link in an increasingly extensive network. For Vladimir, even with the filtering that he was sure Francisco Nasi would do, it represented a doubling of his capabilities or more. It was not a bargain he could afford to pass up.\n\n* * *\n\nWhen Vladimir got home he found mail had arrived from Moscow and the Dacha. There were several letters, requests for specific information for him, packages of goods for trade, mostly furs and pearls. There were also a set of letters and packages, to be delivered to Brandy Bates, some from his sister and some from Bernie. Vladimir thought for a moment about delivering them himself. He was a bit curious about what they might contain. But the truth was he simply didn't have time. He was snowed under trying to find answers to the questions sent to him. He sent his man Gregorii.\n**Chapter 24**\n\nBrandy Bates woke up the morning after her mom had read her the riot act about getting her G.E.D. rather less sure of herself than she had been the night before. Yes, it would be a lot of work and what would it actually get her? It wasn't like she was going to go to the library and find a way that the down-timers could make microwave ovens or washing machines. She was sitting at the kitchen table half-trying to work up her nerve to go see Mrs. Whitney about getting her G.E.D. and half-trying to come up with an excuse for her mom as to why she hadn't. Brandy's procrastinating was interrupted by the doorbell.\n\n\"Yes, can I help you?\" Brandy asked the rather dangerous-looking bearded man at her door. He was carrying several packages.\n\n\"Have . . .\" He paused looking for the next word. Then apparently gave it up as a bad job. \"Stuff. Have stuff for Brandy Bates.\" The accent was almost unintelligible and it wasn't German. Something eastern-European.\n\n\"What sort of stuff and from who?\"\n\nHe pointed at the packages. \"From Berna Zeppa, from Kazrina Natalia, from Czarina.\"\n\nOddly enough it was the word \"Czarina\" that clarified things. The stuff was from Bernie and Natasha. And apparently something from the czarina.\n\nShe let in the man, who muttered his name. Gregorii something, she thought he said. He stacked the stuff on the coffee table in the living room and went on his way. Then Brandy started sorting through the stuff. The packages were from Natasha and the czarina of all the Russias. Apparently she, Brandy Bates of Grantville, was now pen pals with one of the crowned heads of Europe. Maybe if she'd graduated high school she could show them all up at the ten-year reunion. Then she stopped and thought. No, probably not. Her classmates, the ones who were caught in the Ring of Fire . . . Well, a lot of them would probably know crowned heads of Europe by the time the ten-year reunion came around. It would be \"which crowned heads do you know?\" and Russia would be near the bottom of the list.\n\nBrandy laughed out loud. \"Gee, Brandy. Only pen pals with the czarina of all the Russias? You can't win for losing, can you, girl? They do keep moving the goal posts, don't they just!\"\n\nShe read Natasha's letter first. It was full of questions and observations that girls talk to girls about. It had requests for items that she might be able to send: plastic just about anything, aspirin, marijuana, medicines in general, pictures printed or photographed. It acknowledged that acquiring that sort of thing might be difficult and professed to understand if she was too busy to worry about them. A nice way of saying \"we understand if you can't afford such things.\" Which, to be honest, Brandy mostly couldn't.\n\nThe letter directed her to a couple of the packages. One contained forty matched pearls. Another contained, according to the letter, enough treated pelts of Russian mink to make a mink coat for winter. These were not payment but a simple thank you for the magazines and makeup.\n\nThe letter also introduced the czarina and her letter. The czarina's letter was similar but different. There was a feel of condescension about it. Perhaps because she was the czarina or perhaps because she was a married woman. But mostly, it seemed to Brandy that the czarina was a bit nervous and a bit stilted. Both letters were written in seventeenth-century English with all its irregularities in spelling and differences in word usage. The czarina's was probably written by a scribe, which might well be part of the slightly more distant feel that the czarina's letter had. The czarina was a bit more upfront about payment and made it clear that she was interested in those things that were of interest to women and tended to make men uncomfortable. Her package also had pearls, as well as Chinese silk fabric.\n\nFinally, around noon, Brandy got around to Bernie's letter and almost wrote nasty letters to both Natasha and the czarina. There had been a plague outbreak in Moscow and all they wrote about were doodads and trinkets! She actually wrote the letter to Natasha and started the one to the czarina. It was in that one that she stopped and thought. She wrote, \"What if it had been your kids?\" And that was what had stopped Brandy from irrevocably putting her foot in her mouth. The czarina and her children had been in Moscow when the outbreak had happened this spring. She went back to Bernie's letter, yes. It happened every year. Every year the czarina, the czar, and the czar's children lived in the path of the disease, whatever it was. They didn't write her about it because it was a part of life that you lived with, not something you could do anything about.\n\nBut Bernie wanted to do something about it. Football jerk Bernie, quiet drunk Bernie after the Ring of Fire. \"Off to Moscow for the vodka and the hot and cold running servant girls\" Bernie. What had happened to Bernie? Had something made the friendly but perpetually spoiled boy grow up? His letter sure read like it had.\n\nMaybe it was time for Brandy to grow up, too. There were indeed people who were worse off than she was. In a way, the czarina of all the Russias was worse off than Brandy Bates. At least if Brandy got sick she could go to a doctor who wouldn't bleed her to balance the humors.\n\nShe would send Natasha and the czarina everything she could. She'd get the czarina's little girls plastic baby dolls if she had to sell the pearls and the mink to pay for them. She would send Natasha naughty underwear and strappy high-heels to help make her feel pretty. She would do those things, but first she was going to find out about the plumbing. And if she could, she was going to find out about the disease, too.\n\n* * *\n\nAs it turned out, requests for help had already gone out to the doctors from Bernie and Natasha by way of Vladimir. The disease, the doctors were almost sure, was typhoid, spread by human waste in the water supply and curable with antibiotics. Of which there were not nearly enough to go around. The techniques to make the one they could produce down-time had been sent to the Dacha but it would be a while before the Russians could develop the tools to follow the recipe. How long a while was anyone's guess.\n\nWashing hands before preparing food, using antibacterial soap and only using water that had been boiled to wash foods were all essential to stopping the disease, or at least decreasing its spread. All this information had already been sent to the Dacha, though it might not have gotten there yet. Yes, plumbing was essential, too. If the waste didn't get into the water supply and the cooks washed their hands, the disease couldn't get to the victims. Absent antibiotics, the treatment was to fight the fever, replace electrolytes lost through diarrhea, and otherwise fight the symptoms while the patient fought the disease. That treatment would decrease the percentage of deaths, but it would still be the very young and the very old who were hit hardest.\n\nVic Dobbs was helpful; he went over Bernie's letter and made recommendations, focusing on the vent stacks. Which Bernie had apparently not known about. With the help of her mom, Brandy put together the second care package, selling the pearls, mink and silk as needed to gather the goods. Which included some children's vitamins, dolls for the royal daughters and a cap pistol for the heir to the throne, along with various odds and ends to make ladies feel pretty and information on the rights of man and the rights of woman, too.\n\nBrandy's mom took the care package to Prince Vladimir for further shipping because by then Brandy was hard at work on her G.E.D. while working as a researcher in the New U.S. National Library.\n**Chapter 25**\n\n**_Moscow_**\n\n**_September 1632_**\n\nThe older he got, the less he slept. Filaret paced around his room, thinking. God had made his presence known. In that other history, Russian forces would even now be moving toward Smolensk and that whoreson, Sigismund III, would be dead this last half a year. That the war Filaret urged on Russia would have ended in disaster wasn't something that the patriarch doubted, much as he wanted to. God had spoken though the histories of that other time.\n\nThe question of whether God existed was clearly answered. That was perhaps not the sort of question that the patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church ought to be asking, but Filaret's approach to religion had always been more pragmatic than pious; more a means of control than a way to heaven. Well, it had seemed more pragmatic. Maybe the pious fools had been the pragmatic ones, after all. God apparently did exist. Oh, Filaret supposed that an atheist could argue himself into believing that the Ring of Fire had just happened, or was some previously unknown natural phenomenon, but that would take more self-delusion than Filaret could manage at this late date.\n\nAll this, of course, raised the question: _what does God want?_ Filaret had lots of priests who could tell him that, based on the Bible. Unfortunately, not one of them had predicted the Ring of Fire and the scriptures that they had found after the fact predicting it were so vague and contradictory that they might well mean anything.\n\nIt was apparent that God wanted the best for Germany rather more than he wanted it for Russia and that posed a problem. The God who had let Russia and Filaret himself suffer through the Time of Troubles without lifting a finger to help, then moved heaven and earth in time as well as space to aid Germany? That wasn't a god that Filaret could follow. In fact, if old Nick had shown up in Filaret's room that night he would have gotten the patriarch's soul cheap, on the basis that even the Devil has to be better than such a god. With effort, Filaret turned his thoughts away from that well-worn path and onto the equally familiar path of politics.\n\nThey were on a dangerous path. No . . . they had been on a dangerous path before the Ring of Fire. Now it was worse. The knowledge that he had been wrong about attacking Poland had weakened him, and the information about the revolution of 1917 was being used as proof that the Romanov dynasty would lead Russia to disaster. Never mind that it wasn't scheduled for almost three centuries. Now wasn't the time to go experimenting with new ways of governing Russia, and he didn't think Mikhail realized just how dangerous this situation was. Mikhail was a good boy, but too gentle for the real world. Still, something he'd said kept coming back to Filaret. _Knowledge, freely given._ Filaret had started the only print shop in Russia. Like most things, it was a royal monopoly. He had also been instrumental in starting schools in monasteries. Again, control resided in Filaret, this time as the patriarch. Giving things away didn't come naturally to him, especially something as valuable as knowledge. Freely giving knowledge had its drawbacks, didn't it?\n\nBut the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. _Freely given. Charity. A gift to the poor. Alms of knowledge?_ What an interesting idea. The agreement with the Gorchakov family was that the government could do what it wanted with the knowledge from the Dacha. It wouldn't do to give everything away. But some of it . . . Things that would help a lot of people and would cost a lot to administer. _A gift from the czar, granted freely to every citizen, peasant and serf in Russia. The right to make the turning plow._ One of the new plows produced by the Dacha. And, of course, the Gorchakov family could still sell the right to make the plow to anyone who would buy what had already been given them for free. It would serve as a reminder to the Gorchakov family who was czar. At the same time, it would remind everyone that even knowledge was the czar's, to give and withhold at his will.\n**Chapter 26**\n\n\"Why not an airplane, Pete?\" Bernie asked.\n\n\"We're not sure of the math, Bernie,\" Petr Nickovich said, and then grinned when Father Kiril held up his cross as though fending off an evil. Father Kiril, Bernie had long since learned, was quite good at history, language and medicine. But math, especially algebra, gave him the heebie-jeebies.\n\n\"Don't worry, Padre, airplanes work. I've even flown in one,\" Bernie insisted.\n\n\"I don't doubt you,\" Petr Nickovich said, \"but according to Newton's second law the wings should be much larger than this Bernoulli seems to think and . . .\"\n\n\"You trust Newton like he was holy writ,\" Bernie finished for him. \"Bernoulli, not so much. I get it.\"\n\n\"And if we are calculating all this properly,\" Fedor continued, ignoring Bernie's interjection, \"we can probably build a half-dirigible easier than we can build an airplane. The problem is with the engines. A dirigible gets its lift from its lightness, not its motors, so it needs a lot less motor to move a given weight.\"\n\nThe discussion went on and Father Kiril was forced to bring out his cross several more times. Also the D books of two encyclopedias from Grantville were brought forth. Drawings were made and calculations calculated.\n\nAnya brought sandwiches and Magda apple cider, only slightly hard. Gregorii Mikhailovich drew pictures. Bernie did calculations on a solar-powered calculator from Grantville, while Fedor checked him by doing the same calculations in his head and writing them down. By evening they had a plan. There would be a series of tests with hot air, then hydrogen. Each of increasing size.\n\n* * *\n\nBoris stared. A flying ship. Not a little airplane that they talked about in Grantville, but something the nerds\u2014Boris liked that word\u2014at the Dacha were calling a half-dirigible. There were drawings, still rough sketches, and rough estimates of carrying capacity, all of which seemed to agree that bigger was better, to the extent that they could build bigger. Everyone in the section would have seen it by now. The rumors would be flying faster than the half-dirigible could travel. And he had to come up with a recommendation. How was he supposed to know if it would work? Meanwhile, he had dozens of requests for things he knew they could make. And suddenly hundreds of requests for transfers to his section. \"Pavel, get in here.\"\n\nPavel came quickly enough. Boris smiled. Pavel looked nervous, as well he should. \"You will be missing dinner at home again.\" Boris handed him the report. \"Go out to the Dacha and find out about this.\"\n\n\"But, Papa\u2014\" Pavel started to complain.\n\nBoris cut him off. \"I know all about the party at the Samelov house. They want you to get their little Ivan a job in the section, but he doesn't speak English and the only thing I've heard he's good at is getting drunk. Make your apologies, but get out to the Dacha.\"\n\nBoris put the rest of the reports in his Grantville-style briefcase and headed for home, wondering how Princess Natasha's meeting with Czarina Evdokia was going.\n\n* * *\n\n\"So, now that you've had a chance to get to know him, what is this Bernie like?\" Czarina Evdokia took a sip of strong Russian tea.\n\n\"Different from when he arrived,\" Natasha said. \"When he first arrived he was very sad and he didn't, I think, care very much for anything or anyone. He was useful enough, helpful and willing, and the things he knows are so many and varied that he has no idea how much he does know. Yet it's not as though he knows more than we do. He doesn't.\"\n\nNatasha paused because this was something that she wasn't sure she really grasped. \"A carpenter knows wood and he knows his village. A blacksmith again knows iron and his village. I know my family's lands, but the individual villages . . . not so well as the blacksmith or the carpenter each knows his own village. And I know more of the rest of the world than the carpenter or the blacksmith. Bernie might as well be from a village of magi in a nation of magi in a world of scholars. He knows auto mechanics as a carpenter knows wood, but he also knows his much wider, wealthier village. In his village there are aircraft and fruits delivered from around the world. There are cartoons, computers, television and a thousand other things we have never heard of. None of which he really understands, but all of which he knows enough about to make understanding possible with effort.\n\n\"Last winter, when he first arrived, he was willing enough to give the knowledge but the effort was to be all ours. He simply didn't care if we succeeded or not. Still, even then he was worth the money my family pays him, because between him and the books my brother sends, we could work out what was meant most of the time. But then came spring in Moscow and the slow fever.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" the czarina said. \"It's still the talk of Moscow. You should be aware that there are factions in the church that want to burn Bernard Zeppi as a witch. Mostly in response to those who want to saint him. Saints are much more convenient when they are safely dead.\"\n\n\"The words 'saint' and 'Bernie' don't really belong in the same sentence,\" Natasha said, smiling. \"But something happened in Moscow that changed him, or changed his attitude anyway. For a little while after Moscow, he was fierce in his focus on study. But that's not the sort of pace that can be maintained. Now he's mostly gone back to being Bernie, but there is a core of fire there that wasn't there before. He's pushing everyone in the Dacha to learn something. Servants, craftsmen, scholars, even our guards, and it's catching.\n\n\"Honestly, it started before Moscow just from having all the scholars and craftsmen together but with Bernie's fire it's changed. There is an awareness that what we are doing is important. It helps that a cook from the Dacha who has learned techniques from the future has better opportunity. But that's not all of it, not even most of it. We are saving and improving lives and the people at the Dacha know it. There is a feeling around the place that this is the most important thing any of us have ever done or ever will. You can smell it in the wood chips and lacquer, see it in the new things being built and modeled, hear it in the conversations. You breathe it in with the air and all you want to do is get on with it.\" Natasha ground to a halt, embarrassed by her outburst.\n\nThe czarina kindly changed the subject. \"I find the possibilities of the future amazing,\" she said. \"Do you believe they sent someone to walk on the Moon?\"\n\nNatasha considered. \"Yes. I do believe it.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Partly because Vladimir confirms it in his letters, but mostly because Bernie talks about it the way we would speak of Ivan the Terrible or the Mongol rule. Not a fantastic tale, just something that happened in the past.\"\n\n\"Can you imagine? And women went, too. Russian women.\"\n\n\"Valentina Tereshkova. Vladimir wrote about her and Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin. Bernie didn't remember her name but didn't dispute that the first man and the first woman in space were Russian.\" Natasha paused and looked at the czarina. There was a look in Evdokia's eyes. A dreamy, hungry look. To Natasha the fact that the first man and woman in space were Russian was an interesting piece of information and made her feel good about being Russian. For the czarina, it seemed more somehow.\n\n\"I have always dreamed of flying,\" Evdokia's voice had a soft faraway tone. \"Since I was a little girl. Floating up to the clouds and looking down to see the whole world spread before me.\" She visibly pulled herself back from dreams of flight, but a bit of the smile lingered. \"Child's dreams, but it warms me somehow that it was done, and by Russians first.\"\n\n\"Who knows?\" Natasha offered. \"What those people from the future could do, we can learn to do. Petr Nickovich says we can fly. He thinks he understands gravity and has built model hot air balloons that work. You may fly yet.\"\n\nEvdokia laughed a bit sadly. \"Even if we learn to fly, it will not be allowed. It is a pleasant thought, though. Now tell me of the progress of the Dacha.\"\n\nNatasha grinned as she began her report. \"As I said, Petr Nickovich thinks he understands gravity. Fedor is not convinced . . .\" Not of the feel of the Dacha this time, of the particulars. Then there were the letters from Grantville. Natasha almost always had a new one to share and now the czarina had her own.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Thank God,\" Bernie said when Natasha handed him the latest batch of letters. \"There wasn't anything about plumbing in those books. I hope I've got an answer to that problem.\" Natasha had made a rare foray into the kitchen, searching for him. He was having his usual sandwich lunch.\n\n_Dear Bernie,_\n\n_Vic Dobbs says you left out the vent stack for your plumbing and that's most likely the problem. I typed out the sections he suggested in some of his plumbing books. Without the vent stack you get a buildup of pressure or a vacuum in the septic system and it forces the dirty, yuck, water back up or clogs up the system. He made a drawing to show you what you did wrong. I've included that along with the notes I typed. He also said you'd probably never seen one, since they're usually inside the walls, so don't feel bad about it. This ought to fix the problem. Just in case, you might want to have that Vladimir guy contract to have some books on plumbing that Vic recommends copied or scanned and reprinted. A list is included._\n\n_I saw your father in town yesterday. He said to tell you hello and wants to know can he sell your car? It's in the way, he said. But, Bernie, a car engine is worth a small fortune these days. He also said you should write him and your sisters. They want to hear from you, too._\n\n_Old Grantville is rocking along just fine right now. We've got, I swear, thousands and thousands of people around here now. It's so different from before._\n\n_I hope you're doing well and I hope the plumbing helps. The docs think your slow fever is typhoid, and that you're right. It's shit getting into the water supply that causes it. I bet it's a lot different than working on cars was. But then, who'd have ever dreamed I'd wind up working in a research center, of all things? For both of us I think it's more important work than we would have had up-time._\n\n_Well, gotta go. I need to have this done before I get to work so Mom can drop it off at your Russian spy's place to be sent on. Tell Natasha I said hi!_\n\n_ Best,_\n\n_ Brandy_\n\n* * *\n\n\"You have wood in your hair.\" Natasha grinned. Bernie needed some management and she found she liked that. She peered at his hair. \"Quite a bit of wood. What have you been doing out there in that shop of yours?\"\n\nMuch to Natasha's surprise, Bernie went outside to shake off the wood shavings. \"Sorry about that,\" he said when he came back to finish his lunch. \"I didn't realize. I brushed myself off, but didn't know I had it in my hair. We were working on the pattern lathe. Finally got the setup for that connecting piece Ivan the Tolerable wanted.\" Bernie had gotten into the habit of giving various people at the Dacha nicknames. \"Now I need to talk to the guys about this vent stack thing. Maybe we can get the bathroom back in operation.\" Bernie gulped down the last of his sandwich and beer and rose from the table again. \"Excuse me. I really want to get the plumbing working. We can't persuade anyone else to install it till we get it working and winter is coming on pretty quick. I really don't want another spring typhoid outbreak.\n\n\"Oh, Brandy said to tell you hi. And I'm going to be up late studying, again.\"\n\nNatasha barely repressed the snort. Studying, he said. Studying that little blonde, more likely.\n\nShe shouldn't mind it, Natasha knew. It was common with men. But this was Bernie, and for some reason it bothered her.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Could you light a couple more candles?\" Bernie smiled at Anya. \"I can't tell you how much I miss good lighting, I really can't.\"\n\nBernie liked Anya. She was smart, willing and practical. Bernie was perfectly aware that she was using him. He was using her, too, but it was friendly and fun. Anya went off to get more candles.\n\nBernie sat down with the book, a hand-typed and drawn copy of freshman algebra. Algebra had been one of his \"did well\" courses. One of the ones that he had found fun. But it had been a few years and the nerds were desperate to get through algebra so that they could get on with calculus. Not one of Bernie's good courses.\n\n\"Bernie, could you teach me math?\" Anya asked. Her English was still far from good but it was getting better every day.\n\n\"Sure. Algebra?\"\n\n\"No. Math of accounts.\"\n\n\"Accounting?\" Bernie stopped and considered. Actually it made quite a lot of sense. Russia was trying desperately to move from a primarily barter economy to a moneyed economy. That would require bookkeeping and accounting. A growth industry, they would have said up-time. \"Yes, that makes a lot of sense. I'm not sure I have all the stuff we'll need. In fact, I'm darn sure that I don't. But we can make a start. I don't know all that much about double-entry bookkeeping, but I'm pretty sure it involves something like this.\"\n\nBernie pulled over a sheet of paper and drew a grid. \"The item bought or sold. The amount it's bought for here or sold for here that way you have a record as it comes in and goes out so . . .\"\n\nThey got a start on it, then Bernie got back to refreshing his memory about algebra.\n\nAll the things he didn't know meant Bernie had to study. It was a lot more intense than school had been and he had come to think of it as much more important. Importance didn't make it easier or more fun. But, as with anything, practice did. All the stuff that he had been sure that he would never need once he graduated high school, he needed now. He had to interpret words he'd never heard and in contexts he'd never dreamed of. What the hell was calcareous grassland? Calcareous turned out to be to do with chalk or calcium; at least that's what the dictionary said. But calcareous grassland? How could chalk grow grass? He had to go to the dictionary all the time to find the weird stuff that the Russian nerds wanted.\n\nThen there was Bernoulli's Law. Petr Nickovich had found a description of how wings worked in one of the books. The explanation described a wing's dependence on Bernoulli's Law. Then they had compared that with Newton's three laws and the effects hadn't matched up. The nerds had come to the conclusion that it couldn't work that way. Newtonian physics, Bernie was assured, would require a small plane to be traveling at over three hundred miles an hour to fly. They believed Bernie that powered flight was possible. They even believed him and the books about the size of the wings and the speed of the aircraft. They knew and understood that they were missing something, but they didn't know what. Bernie didn't know what either. He built paper airplanes and wooden airplanes that flew, based on the rubber-band-powered airplanes he had played with as a kid, but he couldn't explain how they worked.\n\nWhat Bernie didn't know, and for that matter most people in the Ring of Fire didn't know, was that Bernoulli's equations were a way of describing the actions of large groups of air molecules that were in turn following Newton's laws of motion. And when they had tried to integrate the two different ways of describing the same event they had, in effect, added everything up twice. The mathematicians and natural philosophers who surrounded Bernie now might have understood the complex explanation. They were still somewhat trapped by Aristotle's assumptions but they were some really bright guys. It didn't matter. Bernie didn't have the science to explain it. He had seen the drawings of air flow over a wing and assumed that they were accurate. They weren't. This didn't mean the shape of the wing was wrong. They weren't really inaccurate, either. Just simplified. Using the drawing out of those books for the cross-section of the wing would produce a wing that would fly quite well. Assuming, of course, that you added the ailerons and the rest of the plane.\n\nEvery day Bernie had people asking him questions that he didn't have the answers to. They weren't meaningless questions that didn't really matter, like how many planets there are in the solar system. Well, most of them weren't. The astrologers were nuts to know the locations of Neptune, Uranus and Pluto. Mostly, though, the questions were about how things worked and how to treat injuries and diseases. And that's what kept him up late studying.\n**Chapter 27**\n\nAndrei had it. He was sure now that after months of experimentation, he had the right chamber shape. The outside of the chamber was shaped like a long barn with a peaked roof. The inside, of course, was a round hole of the same size as the barrel. After the chamber was loaded, it was simply inserted into the rifle, roof down and muzzle forward, which put the touch hole on the right side, aligned with the pan. He had tested it on the firing bench, fired dozens of rounds through it with no real problems. He reported to Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev that they were ready to go into production. Granted, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev wasn't the official person he was supposed to report to, but he was Andrei's patron, so he was who Andrei told first.\n\nSheremetev told him to make two dozen of the rifles and to have them sent to the Sheremetev estates. Andrei did so. It was a disaster.\n\nIn the field the chambers had a bad habit of slipping out of the guns. Even worse, sometimes they didn't slip out of the rifle, not all the way. Instead they got shifted just a little so that the touch hole was still aligned enough to fire the charge, but the muzzle of the chamber wasn't properly aligned. At which point the gun had a tendency to blow up. Any bit of dirt that got into the chamber lock misaligned the chamber and caused it to misfire or sometimes escape from the chamber lock when fired. One of the Sheremetev _deti boyars_ had died when an escaping chamber had hit him in the head.\n\nBoyar Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev was not amused. Worse, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev was embarrassed, because the first guns shouldn't officially have gone to him but to the army. Sheremetev excused the slip by saying that he was having the sample tested to help out his _deti boyar_ and wasn't it a good thing that he had. For if he hadn't, the army might have got stuck with rifles that weren't ready yet. The explanation was accepted but not believed and Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev resented Andrei. But even more he resented the Dacha and Natasha for the fact that he had to ask them for help.\n\n* * *\n\nFilip, Bernie and the team came out to look at the AK2 and discussed how they might be fixed. There were a lot of problems with it. The upside down barn shape of the chamber was supposed to provide a guide to position the chamber. And it sort of worked, but a bit of dirt in the chamber lock or a burr on the chamber took the chamber out of position and there was still the gap between the chamber and the barrel. Unlike a six-shooter, the way a rifle was shot put that gap altogether too close to the face of the person firing the weapon for comfort. So the barn was modified. Just the back of the chamber was shaped like a barn. Just enough to allow the chamber to be positioned in the dark. The rest of the chamber was basically cylindrical. That went a long way to fixing the dirt and imperfections problem, but made the alignment problem worse.\n\nOne of the team members, who had been in charge of the actual installation of the plumbing at the Dacha, remembered that they had used pipe sections inserted into the expanded end of the next pipe section. He suggested that the back inch or so of the barrel be resized so that the chamber could be shoved into it.\n\nAs stated, the idea wasn't workable, but it suggested possibilities. Rather than inserting the whole front end of the chamber, a round lip, not very big, that could be shoved forward might work. It would have the problem that it couldn't simply be slotted in like the chamber of the AK2, but maybe a lever that opened up the slot that the chamber fit into then closed it back might be the answer. But Andrei didn't like that way of doing it. It introduced moving parts and, worse, introduced them right where a great deal of force would be exerted. It was clearly not yet ready for the army\n**Chapter 28**\n\n**_October 1632_**\n\nThe Ring of Fire had happened a year and a half ago and Bernie had been in Russia the better part of a year when he was given the first official pronouncement on the Ring of Fire. It was far from the first pronouncement. Monasteries had pronounced first that it hadn't happened at all and later that it was the work of the Devil because if God had done it He would have put it in Russia, not the Germanies, for not even God could care much for those barbaric people. Certainly not more than he cared for Holy Russia.\n\nThrough it all, the office of the patriarch had made no pronouncement, taking a wait-and-see attitude. From what Natasha had told him, that had been a very near thing. But here it was. In Russian, of course. Bernie could struggle through Russian writing by now, but not well. Natasha read it to him.\n\n_Patriarch Filaret's Advisory_\n\n_on the_ _Ring of Fire_\n\n_It is clear through multiple sources that God, in his infinite wisdom, has chosen to take a hand in the conflict among the German States. He provides through this example clear evidence of both His infinite power and His will, that the Roman Church and the Protestants, whether Lutheran, Calvinist, or other peculiar sects, are wrong. God has endeavored to make clear to them that which of their errors is most wrong is not a matter worth fighting over._\n\n_That is clearly God's message to them. But what is God's message to us? It is obvious that we are not in need of the sort of correction the German States required, else surely God would have placed the Ring of Fire here, in Holy Rus. While His admonishment, gentle as it is, is for the Germans, the gifts which He sent with it are clearly for all the world. Willingly or not, the knowledge the up-timers bring is spreading to all the world. To their credit, the up-timers themselves seem willing enough to share most of the knowledge that God gifted their ancestors and our descendants with. This is an especially gracious gift to Holy Rus. For, while we have been strong in our adherence to scripture and the true faith, circumstances have left us behind the more western nations in some of the more mundane and earthly matters. We have been blocked by Poland from sharing in the technical advances made in the west._\n\n_The czar, in his wisdom, has long had a policy of trying to correct that problem so that we, the true heirs of Christianity and the Roman empire, could maintain the faith in relative safety, while at the same time limiting the corrupting influences from the west. God has smiled on Czar Mikhail's endeavor by providing new skills developed over time; many of them developed right here in Holy Rus. Yet like greedy children we complain \"Why an American village? Why not a Russian village?\" We know, after all, that in the twentieth-century Holy Rus was one of the two great powers. After studying the history, it is obvious that God chose an American village to protect Holy Rus, especially the church. The Russia of that time had fallen into corruption. For most of the twentieth century the Russian Orthodox Church, in fact all Christianity, had actually been banned. It was to protect us from this corruption that God chose an American village._\n\n_He placed it in Germany to remind us that He sees the whole world and cares about even those who have fallen away from the true church. More than that, He placed it in Germany to remind us not to be too proud to listen and learn from others and to protect us from too much of their direct influence, so that we might learn from them without becoming them. To protect our great Russian culture and still allow us the benefits of the good things they brought with them._\n\n\"That,\" Bernie said with a grin, \"is the work of a top-flight spin doctor.\"\n\n\"What's a spin doctor?\" Natasha asked.\n\n\"Someone whose job it is to spin the facts so that the best possible face is put on them.\"\n\nNatasha looked at him.\n\n\"God didn't put the Ring of Fire in Germany because he likes Germany better but because none of the faiths the Germans are fighting over are the right one,\" Bernie said, shaking his head in admiration. \"I never would have thought of that.\"\n\n\"Do you think God cares more for Germany than for Russia?\" Natasha asked quietly. Natasha had never struck Bernie as all that religious but the notion that God didn't think you were worth worrying about had to hurt.\n\n\"No,\" Bernie said with more conviction than he really felt. \"What I think is that if the Ring of Fire had showed up anywhere where there was just one established religion, that religion would have landed on it with both feet. If the Ring of Fire had landed Grantville, say, here in the Time of Troubles _,_ then we would have been hit by Russian troops with Russian Orthodox priests urging them on before they knew anything except that something strange and scary had happened. And by the time anyone really figured out what had happened, it would have been really hard for them to backtrack. The Russian Orthodox Church would have been stuck with a policy of kill the daemons.\"\n\nNatasha slowly nodded, thinking it through. Russian civilization had come apart in the Time of Troubles, __ but the church wasn't seriously challenged. If something like the Ring of Fire had happened, people would have looked to the church for answers and there was a very real chance that the church would have seen the town with Catholics, Protestants, and even atheists\u2014but no one from the Orthodox Church\u2014as a threat.\n\n\"Yep. Would have scared the hell out of just about anyone. The difference between here and there is just that there, there was nothing strong enough to hit us before they got to know us at least a little. And they had Lutherans, Calvinists, Catholics, some killing each other, some running each other out of town, and a few sort of getting along. We were easier for them to get used to.\"\n\n\"So not virtue or vice, but circumstance?\"\n\n\"That's the way I figure it, but I ain't God. Not even a priest. But, as to that bit about 'gift to all the world'? Come see the balloon tomorrow.\"\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha watched the balloon as it lifted into the air. Petr Nickovich was doing \"a preliminary experiment into the lifting power of hot air.\" In other words, he was playing. It was his third balloon so far, each larger than the last. This one was as tall as a man and as wide as it was tall. And it trailed a series of lead weights. Lifting first one, then the next into the air below it. It lifted five of them, then stopped rising, proving that hot air is lighter than cold air. Which any five-year-old in any peasant village in Russia could have told him. Natasha knew there was more to it than that. The weights told Petr how much lift he was getting from that volume of heated air. There was also a thermometer in the balloon that told him how hot the air was. A thermometer by the wall told him how hot the outside air was so he would have the difference.\n\nPetr Nickovich was holding his experiment in a corner behind the main building of the Dacha where it would be out of the wind. Which also meant out of the sun. It might have been prettier if his balloon was in the sunlight. It would certainly have been warmer.\n\nWhat had really brought her out into the cold to see it was the idea that, some day, a much bigger thing like this might let people fly. Petr Nickovich wasn't looking at the balloon; he was writing out calculations. Then he looked over at Filip Pavlovich. \"I was right. The heated air lifts a little more than a quarter of an ounce per cubic foot.\"\n\nFilip Pavlovich just nodded.\n\n\"I must have the hydrogen you promised me,\" Petr Nickovich insisted.\n\n\"Yes. Fine. We'll talk about it, but inside.\" Filip Pavlovich was visibly cold even in his heavy clothing. \"Where it's warm.\"\n\nNatasha smiled, though she didn't let it show. Petr Nickovich was not one to take being laughed at well and keeping the peace was part of Natasha's job.\n\nAs they blew out the candles that were heating the air for the balloon, Natasha thought about what was going on at the Dacha. It wasn't just Bernie, the person that this was all about. There was Lazar Smirnov, a member of a cadet branch of a great house, who was sitting in one of the buildings, winding wires in a coil. Slowly, carefully, making what he said would be a generator of electric. He carefully painted the wire with lacquer and laid one circuit around the coil, then waited for it to dry before he did the next. He was a volunteer, here because he wanted to be. Sure, he and Bernie had talked about insulation and electromagnetic fields but he was the one doing the work. And Lazar could have hired a small army to do any work he wanted done. But he wanted to understand electric power, so was doing the work himself.\n\nIt was a strange attitude in Lazar and it had come from Bernie. \"You want to learn how a machine works, build it yourself. Set someone else to doing it and they'll learn it instead of you.\" Bernie had said that more than once and clearly it was having an effect. Servants here were treated better, talked to, not at. You might need the expertise they had gained on your next project. Natasha was not sure where it would all lead.\nPart Three\n\n**_The year 1633_**\n**Chapter 29**\n\n**_January 1633_**\n\nIt worked. Andrei Korisov had tested it, even firing it several times himself. The results were good. Not perfect by any means, but the third major version of the Andrei Korisov Rifle was a workable weapon, even a good one. It seemed to Andrei that it had taken both more and less time than it had. More because of all the frustrations of the last two years and less because it was a genuine revolution in the design of fire arms.\n\nHe sent a message to Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev telling him so. Sheremetev sent back, \"Send some to the Dacha. Let's see what they say,\" by which Andrei was allowed to know that he was not forgiven yet for the failures of the AK2.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie knelt on the blanket laid out at the Dacha firing range and fired the new gun from the gun shop. It was the third day of testing and it had passed the bench tests pretty well. The lip had helped a lot with the outgassing. It no longer cut you if you had your hand in the wrong place, it just hurt like the blazes.\n\nBernie wanted to make sure that the outgassing had been licked enough so that it wasn't a danger to the user. He was also making a point. Andrei wouldn't get it, but by now Filip would. So would Natasha. Leaders lead. They don't assign some poor peasant to take the risks.\n\nBernie opened the chamber lock by the lever-action and pulled the spent chamber. The lever-action allowed the back of the chamber lock to be pushed forward, forcing the lip of the chamber into the barrel. It also allowed for the quick removal and replacement of the firing chamber. Bernie knew that Andrei hated the added complexity of the lever-action. But by now the fact that Andrei didn't like it made Bernie at least open to the idea. Andrei was probably right that simpler was better both for production and for ease of maintenance. But the lever-action of the chamber lock was simple. Four moving parts, all of them interconnected. Levers moved the back block of the chamber lock back when opened and forward when closed. The back block of the chamber lock was shaped like an upside down barn with a peaked roof, and fit into the back block in only one position. That meant that to line up the chamber only the back and front of the chamber had to be precisely finished, precisely fitted.\n\nHe was about to stick another in when he had a thought. He half cocked the lock, flipped up the frizzen, tapped the touch hole on the chamber over the pan. Sure enough, a few grains of powder fell into the pan. Bernie closed the frizzen, inserted the chamber, closed the lever action cocked and fired again.\n\nHe looked over at Nick. \"How am I doing? Hitting anything?\"\n\n\"You're hitting a bit low, Bernie,\" Nick told him.\n\n\"It's the black powder drop,\" Bernie complained. \"After a life time of shooting smokeless, I can't get used to it. What about adjustable sights, Andrei? I know we talked about them.\"\n\n\"They are an added expense and no one will know how to use them.\"\n\n\"Cheap asshole,\" Bernie muttered under his breath. But in a way he knew that Andrei was right. Russia wasn't like Germany, where you published a cheat sheet and suddenly everyone knew how it worked. Likely as not, in a Russian village, there was no one who read or wrote. And if someone did happen to be literate, having something read to you once was not the same thing as having the cheat sheet there to look at. It made it a lot harder to disseminate information in Russia than it was in Germany. And, as best as Bernie could tell, that was just how the powers that be liked it. Bernie reminded himself again that it wasn't his job to reform Russian politics, then went back to leading by example.\n\n\"Okay, Nick. I've tried it now. Ten rounds as fast as I can. Time me.\"\n\nIt took him two minutes to send eight rounds downrange. Call it four rounds a minute as long as he had loaded chambers and used his trick of tapping the chamber to prime the pan. Theoretically, you could do that with a muzzle-loader, though, in the real world, two or three rounds a minute was more likely. And Bernie was firing a new weapon. Given some practice, he could probably get faster. A pro with this thing might get to five or six rounds, though Bernie doubted that even the Russian Davy Crockett would manage more than that. Well, maybe if he had the chambers lined up and handy and didn't worry about where the chambers went after he fired them.\n\nThe AK3 could be reloaded kneeling or prone, and that went for reloading the chambers too. They were only five inches long, after all. With loaded chambers, five to eight rounds a minute. With unloaded chambers, two or three, about even with a muzzle-loader. And as of late January of 1633 there were a grand total three of them in existence.\n\nBernie stood up. \"All right, Andrei. You have a working prototype. We can add a couple minor tweaks, but overall it looks like as good as we are going to get with the tech base we've got. How can we help you guys get it into production?\"\n\n* * *\n\n_It was educational_ , Natasha thought, _to see the effect Andrei Korisov has_. He was undoubtedly brilliant and often right, but so self-centered and irritating about it that you wanted to argue the other side just to be against him. Andrei's negative example had helped to open Filip's eyes to the virtues of treating peasants and servants with respect. Not as much as Bernie's positive example perhaps, but it had its effect. Natasha knew she was affected the same way Filip was by both. Andrei would point out that Russian peasants couldn't do this or that. Natasha would immediately want to find one who could\u2014and she usually could. Individually. But how did you get enough of them taught?\n\nAnd that was the issue Andrei Korisov brought up in regard to getting the AK3 into full-scale production. There were armories in Russia. Some of them were quite good, so far as quality was concerned. But even Andrei's Gun Shop was incredibly slow by German standards, much less up-time standards. And it wasn't just guns. It was everything. Oh, Russians knew how to do things\u2014but that was half the problem. Russians knew how to make a gun. You made it the way your grandfather did. They knew how to make a plow and how to use that plow to plow a field . . . which was precisely the way their grandfather did it, and at the same phase of the moon.\n\nNot that there weren't creative people and original thinkers in Russia. It was just that they all seemed to live at the Dacha. Well, perhaps a few at the Gun Shop.\n\nThe specific issue now was getting the gunsmiths in Russia to make the new guns, much less use the new techniques. There was nothing about the chamber-loading flintlock rifle that they couldn't make, but Andrei was insisting that they were too stupid to learn. And Filip was insisting that if Andrei could learn, a donkey could learn. Bernie was insisting that there was no reason for the gunsmiths of Russia to object to the AK3 and plenty of reason for them to embrace it.\n\nBut Bernie didn't understand. Andrei was unpopular and well-known enough that the mere fact that he had invented the rifle\u2014and named it after himself\u2014was plenty of reason for most Russian smiths to hate it, sight unseen. Add to that the general illiteracy, and what Bernie called \"the not invented here syndrome,\" and they were facing an uphill battle.\n\nMeanwhile Natasha was getting a headache.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What was it like to live in the future?\" Anya asked.\n\n\"Easier, freer, but less important.\" Bernie shrugged. \"I never thought much about the future when I was living in it. What I did didn't matter much to anyone, not even me. I was in no hurry to grow up. There was no real need. I had a pretty good job. Enough money for most of what I wanted. Never found the right girl, but had a lot of fun looking.\" Bernie grinned at Anya. He wasn't her right guy and she wasn't his right girl, but they had fun anyway.\n\n\"Right after the Ring of Fire, and especially right after the Battle of the Crapper, I was just caught up in what I had lost. I couldn't get over the way my mother died and I kept seeing those guys falling down like tenpins at the Crapper. It didn't help that like a damn fool I made the mistake of going out there after the battle and looking at the corpses. There was one kid\u2014I'm sure I was the one who shot him, because he was wearing this odd-looking hat\u2014\"\n\nHe broke off for a moment, then shook his head. \"So I didn't give much thought to what it meant for anyone else.\" Bernie looked into Anya's pale blue eyes made darker by the candlelight. She was trying, but she didn't get it. He hadn't expected her to. It made little enough sense from the inside; it had to seem totally nuts from the outside.\n\n\"Like everyone else, I was in shock at first. But I just couldn't come out of it. People started doing things, things that mattered. President Stearns, Jeff Higgins . . . everyone was making it work and I couldn't get past the Crapper and Mom's death. I was sitting around doing what I was told. The same old Bernie. No direction, no drive.\n\n\"I couldn't think of anything useful to do. Truthfully, I wasn't even trying. Then Vladimir offered me this job. I had no idea if I could do it, but I couldn't take much more of Grantville. It wasn't home anymore, but it was too much like home.\n\n\"I think the trip out here was the first time I had been sober for three days running since the Crapper. Now, I'm too busy to worry about it that much.\" Bernie grinned again. \"Too much to do. The Nerd Patrol is always hitting me with new questions and I spend so much time reading and helping out that there isn't that much time to mope anymore. That's the secret to a happy life, kid. Have something to do. It's even better if it's something that matters. But have something, whether it matters to anyone else or not.\"\n\n* * *\n\nLazar Smirnov worried out the words in the pamphlets. Flipping back and forth between them, trying to divine meaning from two directions. Along with the copies of English books and parts of books that Vladimir sent them were the occasional German translations. Lazar had a bit of German, almost twice as much German, in fact, as he had English. He didn't have all that much of either. He spoke Russian, read Latin and Greek, but that was about it. His reading of Russian was problematic and his writing was quite idiosyncratic. So trying to read the pamphlets on electronics and radio was an uphill task at the best of times. But he had been doing it for over a year now and he was gaining, he hoped, an understanding of how it all worked. He had a spark gap transmitter and it now seemed to work. That is, the crystal set clicked when it should if it was close enough. What was the difference between a Leiden jar and a capacitor? He was beginning to think there wasn't one. He went back to the little pamphlet on the capacitor and noticed the word mica, looked up mica and noticed that the best was muscovite mica.\n\nAt which point Lazar wrote to Vladimir about the potential for profit if they could determine what muscovite mica was.\n\nHaving written his letter and had his man put it in the pouch to be sent to Grantville, Lazar went back to trying to improve the tuning of his tuned-circuit spark gap transmitter. That evening he went on to trying to figure out how to make an alternator so that he could produce inductance and an inductance furnace for the melting of metal.\n**Chapter 30**\n\n**_February 1633_**\n\nNatasha alighted from the sleigh at her family's dacha outside of Moscow, along with her aunt, Sofia Petrovna. Both were wearing full regalia. And they were attending this function almost against their will. Over a year ago the Dacha had been converted into a research and development shop. For a while there had been very little notice taken of what was going on at the Gorchakov dacha, but for months now there had been increasing pressure to provide demonstrations of what rumor said the Gorchakov family was keeping secret. Natasha had resisted for several reasons. But resistance had proved futile. Well, not entirely futile. She had gained time and, though the Dacha leaked like a sieve, there was a difference between hearing about something and seeing it. Meanwhile, through some mystical combination of personalities and mutual support, the Dacha produced magic. Magic which had allowed the family to gain support and favors from several of the most important bureaus and great families.\n\nThe Dacha was still not profitable in terms of money and it would be some time before it would even start to pay back the money invested in it, at least to the family. But politically it was a gold mine. Natasha, with Aunt Sofia's guidance, had been selectively generous. Rewarding friends for friendship and strengthening the more liberal factions at court.\n\nAunt Sofia served as her chaperone, necessary in Muscovy's culture. While her brother, Vladimir Petrovich, was away in Grantville, someone had to assume responsibility for the lands. That responsibility fell on Natasha. Young for it she might be, but she and Vladimir were the last of their branch of the family. It was a wealthy branch. Thankfully, she and Vladimir had been raised by a free-thinking father who had been rather enamored of the west. She had been educated alongside Vladimir. Fashionable or not, someone had to take care of things.\n\nAunt Sofia turned to Natasha. \"Well, girl, what do you suppose Bernie has done this time? I thought the stinks and noises from his bathroom were quite enough. And the hundred ways he has discovered not to make a light bulb was rather less than impressive.\"\n\nNatasha looked at her diminutive aunt and raised an eyebrow.\n\n\"Fine, he and the electric nerds have made working light bulbs now.\" Aunt Sofia admitted. \"And their light is much better for reading than candlelight. But it took them long enough, considering the information Vladimir sent.\"\n\n\"It's not Bernie we need to worry about. It's the nerds,\" Natasha corrected.\n\nWhat she was worried about wasn't Bernie. It was Russian culture. In the Dacha they had developed their own little world of cooperation. But in the bureaus, among the service nobility and great families, there was a culture of back-stabbing and credit-stealing that had been all that Natasha had known, as unnoticed as the sea to a fish. Until the Dacha\u2014and now she was very afraid that with the presence of the guests the nerds would revert to bureaucrats.\n\nBut it was unavoidable. After spending too long informing their superiors and themselves that the Dacha was an unimportant flash in the pan, that the items that were pouring out of it were all there were or were ever going to be, and besides, they were all really coming from Grantville anyway\u2014the bureaus, the monasteries and the great families had suddenly noticed that the Dacha was changing the political equation. Now the members of the _Boyar_ _Duma_ and the high and the mighty in general wanted to see what was going on and how much things were going to change. There was also a faction that was anxious to shut the place down and set the clock back.\n\n* * *\n\nThe czar and czarina, Patriarch Filaret, several members of the _Boyar_ _Duma_ and some of their wives, and three of the highest-ranking prelates representing three of the most powerful monasteries in Russia, arrived over the next few hours and had to be provided quarters in the Dacha for their stay. The normal inhabitants of those rooms had been moved into outbuildings, and some of them even into a large, heavy, double-walled tent. Natasha greeted each guest as they arrived.\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha listened to the lecture on soil chemistry with half an ear. It wasn't that it was unimportant. In the long run, it might turn out to be drastically important. But Natasha had already read the reports on fertilizer and had other things on her mind.\n\nIt had taken a while for the other great families and the bureaus to realize what the deal her brother had struck meant, but eventually they had gotten it. By now there was considerable pressure to provide them with up-timers or, better yet, to shift Bernie to their service. The roads bureau wanted Bernie to spend all his time on road-making equipment. The farming bureau wanted him making farming machinery. He was also wanted to make medicines, concrete, steel, plastics, and who knew what else.\n\nThere had been time for some of the effects to be felt since Bernie had arrived in Russia. Some road crews had the equipment he introduced and had been building and repairing roads much faster. A new quick-loading rifle was in limited production. Bernie insisted on calling it the AK3. And Natasha, after some explanation, liked the joke a lot better than she liked Andrei Korisov. Andrei Korisov was head of the team that had developed the new rifle, after all, and the up-time AK47 had been simple and massively produced, just like the AK3 was supposed to be.\n\nBoth the Swedish and Polish sections of the embassy bureau wanted Bernie transferred to them, and the Grantville Section shut down. The Swedish Section claimed jurisdiction because Bernie had become a subject, sort of, of the king of Sweden since he had left Grantville. The Polish Section claimed jurisdiction because Bernie was teaching what he knew about firearms. In fact, both claims were to get Bernie into the control of the great families most connected with those bureaus.\n\nThe knives were out, all over Moscow. Some of them were political and some made of steel. The political ones were by far the more dangerous.\n\n\"By introducing nitrates into the soil . . .\"\n\nFor a moment Natasha was distracted from her thoughts. Nitrates and the nitric acid that could be produced from them played an important role in the production of smokeless gun powder and that process was looking to produce nitroglycerin and then TNT in the next couple of years. No, the lecturer was talking about using clover and beans to enrich the soil on the Gorchakov family estates last summer. It had only been test plots but the tests had been quite successful.\n\nVladimir had made his deal with the patriarch and the family had gained the Bernie franchise. It had been an expensive investment, both in goods shipped to Germany and in wealth spent here. The return on investment was small so far. But the favors flowed like rivers. And favors were the currency of political power in Russia. If the mining bureau wanted a road to a new mine, it would not have to come just to the roads bureau, not now. Now it would have to come to the Grantville Section and the Gorchakov clan. Boris Petrov had collected more favors since being made head of the Grantville Section than in all the rest of his career. And Boris' gains in influence hadn't even really compared to the Gorchakov clan's gains.\n\nAnd that was dangerous. While they had been a minor, mostly unconnected family with few important ties, they could be safely ignored and mostly were. But over the last year and a half, they had become noticeable, the unavoidable consequence of success in Russia. The Sheremetev clan was showing particular interest in wresting any potential profits from the Gorchakov clan, though they seemed happy enough for the expense to remain with the Gorchakovs.\n\nWith Bernie placed in their Dacha, it was unavoidable that the Gorchakov family backed and influenced the Grantville Section. So far, no one had had enough influence to change that. Which also meant that the Gorchakov family was passing out favors. Natasha was picking up more and more owed favors from the high nobility. The Gorchakov family wasn't being stingy in a monetary sense, but there was a degree of political selectivity in their choices.\n\nBut this was Moscow. Alliances could change at a moment's notice. Now the patriarch was nervous, Natasha knew. There were rumors that the Gorchakov clan would try for the throne, which was insane but power carries its own implications.\n\nA more realistic concern was that they would gain influence with the czar. Which in fact was true indirectly through Czarina Evdokia. Natasha, and now Brandy, had considerable influence with Czarina Evdokia and the czarina had considerable influence with the czar. Czar Mikhail was loved, but not that well respected. Not considered . . . particularly strong. Of course, his hands were tied. The Assembly of the Land, the _Zemsky Sobor_ , had seen to that when he was elected. Those limitations might well explain why he was so popular. When the government got blamed for something it was usually his advisors, not the czar, who got the blame. It was known that Mikhail had cried when told he had been elected czar. As well, it was known that he had refused the crown. He had continued to refuse until told that if he didn't accept, the blood of the next Time of Troubles would be on his hands.\n\nNatasha knew the czarina, Evdokia. Before Bernie, that acquaintance would have given her family protection, but not much influence. Now that acquaintance was a way for up-time ideas to reach the czar without going through his father, who was also the patriarch of the Orthodox Church. And the ideas had gotten to Mikhail. Some of them, anyway.\n\n* * *\n\nFedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, Chief of the Bureau of Records, had read the reports. That was one of the reasons that he had pushed for this general demonstration of the products of the Dacha. One of the reasons\u2014the other being his increasing concern about the influence of the Grantville Section and the Gorchakov family. He had been forced, almost against his will, to realize the importance that the Ring of Fire was going to have on the rest of the world, including Russia.\n\nHe watched Petr Nickovich pace about in a dither, getting in the way of the workmen handling the ropes, and found himself tempted to do the same thing. He knew what was about to happen; he'd read about it in the reports. Then, as the ropes were let out, the thing began to rise. Two poles, about five feet apart with ropes going from them to a basket below and balloons above. He had thought that he knew what was going to happen, but he hadn't realized what it would feel like. Twenty feet into the air, then twenty-five, thirty, supported by nothing but air. Its only connection to the earth the ropes that held it down. And in the basket that hung below the dirigible testbed, Nikita Slavenitsky smiled and waved to the crowd of dignitaries.\n\nSheremetev waved back; it was absolutely the least he could do. What he wanted to do was jump up and down and shout. A Russian was flying in the air, held aloft by the knowledge and craftsmanship of his fellow Russians. He had read that the up-timers had already flown. But knowing about it from a report was one thing, seeing it was something altogether different. The up-timers with their machines doing it was one thing. Russians making a flying device out of wood, rope and cow guts\u2014that was something altogether different. Even in his excitement about the flight, he realized that it meant that one of his goals in forcing this demonstration had backfired. If anything it would increase the influence wielded by the Grantville Section. He looked over at the czar's pet up-timer, in time to see Bernie looking bored. Then the outlander snorted a laugh.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie could understand why Petr Nickovich was so nervous. Today the czar, the czarina and some members of the cabinet had come to see his baby fly. Bernie looked over at the big shots. They were gawking. Totally gone. You'd think the aliens were landing or something. Then he thought about it. Granted, it wasn't that much of a dirigible. It had no power and there wasn't much you could do with it, not yet. But, Nikita was the first Russian to fly in this timeline.\n\nWow! This was history. For here and now, this was like the first rocket ship to the moon or something. Bernie found himself giggling a bit. Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky was a nice guy and usually had a joke to tell or a dirty story. But he wasn't the sort of guy you would think of as Yuri Gagarin or Neil Armstrong. But Nick was going down in history anyway.\n\nOne of the big shots was looking a bit offended. \"You find this funny?\"\n\nBernie had forgotten the guy's name. He was the head of one of the bureaus, Bernie knew that much. \"It's not that, sir. I just never thought that a guy I had a beer with every now and then would make history.\"\n\n\"History?\" The guy paused. Looked up and nodded. \"The first Russian to fly.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Bernie said. \"Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky and Petr Nickovich have done Russia proud today. Real proud.\"\n\nThe big shot looked at Bernie a bit sharply for a moment, then he smiled. \"You will excuse me, Bernie Janovich. I must speak to the czar.\"\n\n* * *\n\nFedor Ivanovich Sheremetev headed back to the czar in a rather bemused state of mind. He wasn't sure what to make of the up-timer. Bernie Janovich hadn't tried to take credit for the flight, even though Sheremetev knew that his explanations had been a large part of making it possible. Nor had he been demeaning of the Russian efforts. Sheremetev didn't know what to make of the man, and that bothered him. Over all, he rather liked Bernie Janovich. And that was unfortunate because sooner or later the Gorchakov clan had to go. There was too much power in the Dacha, even with the Gun Shop separated out. He glanced up at the flying carriage. Much too much power. Control of such devices and the knowledge that allowed them to be built must be tightly held and controlled, lest it destroy the social order. Control of such knowledge was important; important in more ways than one. Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky, a _deti boyar_ of the Gorchakov clan, would go down in history as the first Russian to fly. More status to the Gorchakov clan. Too many things like that could change the rank of a clan. Things like that flowed out of the Dacha, and the Gorchakov clan was gaining too much status to be allowed to survive.\n\nFedor Ivanovich was effusive in his praise of the device and the Dacha in general and concerned about leaving such an important project in the hands of such a minor house. He argued intensely that even the flying device wasn't enough to justify any renewal of the conflict with Poland. And he argued that, with the changing state of things, Poland was less of a threat and the Swede was more of one. \"The CPE is potentially the most powerful nation in Europe and we are likely to be thankful for Poland as a buffer state in a few years.\" That position didn't please Patriarch Filaret, but much of the _Boyar Duma_ was more worried about the Swede and the CPE than they were about Poland.\n\nThe first radios were now working, though less well than they had hoped, and there was one in the Moscow Kremlin and the test one at the Dacha. Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev wanted one for the Gun Shop and he wanted one for his estates. Actually, it would take more than one radio to reach his estates. They had limited range. More power for the Gorchakov clan, even if that idiot cousin of Pavel's had done most of the work developing it.\n\n* * *\n\n\"We can fly,\" Evdokia, Czarina of All Russia, insisted. Mikhail looked at his wife and sighed. He knew he was going to lose the argument. They were in the best room in the Gorchakov dacha, and it had been an interesting day.\n\n\"I know how you feel,\" he tried, though in truth he didn't. He knew his Doshinka had dreams of flight but he never had. Mikhail's dreams tended to be dark things, best forgotten. \"But we have real problems that we must deal with.\"\n\nEvdokia, thankfully, didn't ignore the problems, though Mikhail was fairly sure she wanted to. \"I know, Mikhail. But I think that Petr Nickovich made some excellent points about the usefulness of such a flying ship. More importantly, though, is the useful thing he didn't mention.\"\n\n\"What useful thing is that?\"\n\n\"Pride. Pride in being Russian. Pride in being a part of something great. Who is, ah, was . . . will be that up-time general that Mikhail Borisovich Shein is always quoting about eggs?\"\n\nMikhail shook his head, not able to remember the name. He thought the general was French but that was all he remembered.\n\n\"Well, that's not the only quote. The general Nappy-something also said that the moral is to the physical as three to one.\" She grinned. \"I think to the fiscal, it's even more. Let us fill the hearts of the people of Russia with pride in who they are. Not with fear of the bureaucrats.\"\n\nMikhail looked at his wife for a long time, just taking in the bubbling excitement. She fairly glowed with it. Could Petr Nickovich's assemblage of balloons really produce such a reaction? And if it produced that sort of reaction in the Russian heart, what effect would it have on the Polish heart and the Cossack heart? \"Very well. I will support the project. I can make no promises, mind.\"\n\nSomehow, as pleasant as his wife's resulting smile was, it made Mikhail a bit nervous.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie had spent most of the last three days explaining that it was really Vanya, Misha, Filip, Gregorii, Lazar and even Andrei at the Gun Shop who had actually worked out all the improvements. He had just helped a bit. It was becoming increasingly clear not everyone at the Dacha agreed with that assessment, though. Some of the folks who worked here had even said so, though that was less common.\n\nBernie had been in Russia long enough to know how dog-eat-dog the bureaus were, so he was surprised and impressed that any of them were willing to share credit. But some of them were. Not Andrei, of course. But some were, and not just with Bernie, but with each other. Which was even more impressive.\n\nAll of which didn't make orbital mechanics one whit more interesting. When Gregorii Mikhailovich started explaining orbital mechanics and Newton's laws of motion, Bernie's brain started to fry. He just didn't want to hear it again, not right now.\n\nHe was having a beer in the kitchen when the door opened unexpectedly. At first Bernie was afraid that one of the brain cases had come looking for him again. But, no . . . the boss.\n\n\"Howdy, Boss.\" Bernie snaked out an arm and grabbed a chair. \"Have a seat.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" Natasha said taking the offered chair. \"Petr Nickovich is going to be impossible.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Bernie asked.\n\n\"Because the czar\u2014and as of this morning, a majority of the _Boyar_ _Duma_ \u2014wish a dirigible or half-dirigible built. They are going to build a facility at Bor on the Volga to build the main ship and others to follow it, but we will be building a test device here. Things are going quite well.\"\n\n_Maybe,_ Bernie thought, _but it's still a pain in the butt._ \"Glad to hear it,\" he said.\n\nNatasha lifted an eyebrow at him and he shrugged.\n\n\"I am. It's still a pain, but I am glad it's going well. The politics are something I'd just as soon avoid, but I realize that it's necessary.\"\n\n\"It is necessary, Bernie, and I'm not sure how much we're going to be able to avoid them.\" She then told him a bit more about the structure of the Russian government. How the bureaus were traditionally nonpolitical\u2014at least how they had remained nonpolitical in the Time of Troubles, working for whichever claimant was holding the throne at the time. How Mikhail Fedorovich Romanov had been a dark horse candidate who didn't want the throne.\n\nBernie snorted. Then at Natasha's look, he elaborated. \"Isn't that the standard line? After working for years to get the throne, the new king or dictator or whatever says 'I didn't want it, it was just my duty.'\"\n\n\"Perhaps that is how it happens in most cases, but my family has known the czar since before he was the czar. And my father was with the delegation that went to him. Mikhail was a teenager, old enough to know that being declared czar was a short step away from being declared dead. His mother and father each had more than their share of ambition, but they passed none on to Mikhail. He was precisely what the _Boyar_ _Duma_ and the Assembly of the Land wanted, a figurehead to move the battle for control of Russia back out of sight. Even so, the _Boyar_ _Duma_ and Assembly tied his hands with a set of restrictions.\"\n\nBernie held up his hands in surrender. \"I wasn't there,\" he said, \"and I don't doubt you. It's just that the king that doesn't want the throne is a stock item in fairytales, but pretty darn rare in a world of elected officials, where if you don't want the office you don't have to run.\"\n\n\"In any case, the czar is generally quite impressed with your accomplishments and so are the patriarch and Prince Cherkasski.\"\n\nBernie knew that Cherkasski was the czar's cousin and was the boss of three of the bureaus that ran Russia.\n\n\"With their support,\" Natasha continued, \"Sheremetev won't be able to do anything.\"\n\n\"What bugs this Sheremetev about the Dacha?\" Bernie asked.\n\n\"Primarily that he doesn't own it,\" Natasha said. \"The Sheremetev family are famous for their corruption, but also very good at politics. They know all about bribery and blackmail, having accepted more bribes than any other great family in Russia. But we'll be all right here, as long as Patriarch Filaret can keep a leash on Sheremetev. The brain cases will be fine.\"\n\n* * *\n\nMikhail and his father were already consulting with the \"brain cases.\" Mikhail wanted a way out of the trap the up-time history had put him in. Since the history of that other future had leaked, people with power were not happy. He and his father, as czar and patriarch, had been carefully dancing in the mine field of Russian politics, focusing on the danger of a return to the Time of Troubles to keep the various factions in check. Even so, power was shifting between the factions. The one led by Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, for instance. Their cousin or not, Sheremetev felt that the information from the up-timers and the actions of Peter the Great really destroyed the Romanov credentials as arch-conservatives.\n\n\"Interesting, perhaps.\" Sheremetev set his glass on the table. They had been discussing the history of the United States of America and its Constitution. \"Interesting, but not that impressive. It was their day in the sun, that's all. The Mongols had theirs and this United States had theirs. They were only two hundred years old. Barely a youth, as nations go.\"\n\nMikhail looked across the table at him. There were only three men at dinner tonight. Filaret, Mikhail and Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev. Mikhail wanted Sheremetev's support. \"I am more concerned with something else,\" he said \"The general agreement\u2014and I read this over and over again\u2014was that Russia continued to lag behind much of the rest of the world. We can change that, and I believe we should. Right now, we should start. Because right now, everyone is four hundred years behind Grantville. We have Bernie here and Vladimir in Grantville. We can modernize.\"\n\nSheremetev nodded, but Mikhail didn't think he was listening. Not properly at any rate. \"The army, most assuredly. Right away. That I agree with. But this other? This constitution? Why? A firm hand on the reins. That is all that is needed, Mikhail. A firm hand on the reins of Rus.\"\n\nMikhail shook his head. No, Sheremetev wasn't listening.\n\n* * *\n\nFedor Ivanovich Sheremetev left the dinner and considered the evening most of the way home. He understood what Mikhail and Filaret were contemplating. _Let every peasant vote. Introduce a constitutional monarchy, then gradually give away the power, not only of the monarchy, but of the great families as well._\n\nHe would not, he could not, let that happen. They said it was to prevent the revolution that had come in three hundred years hence in that other history, which they thought would probably happen even sooner in this one if they didn't act to forestall the causes for it. But to Sheremetev, such reasoning bordered on sheer insanity. Who could predict what might happen in three centuries? In any event, if preventing a revolution was the issue, surely a policy of more severe and consistent maintenance of order would work far more reliably than introducing chaos.\n\nBut Sheremetev suspected that the real reason for their schemes, at least for the czar himself, was that Mikhail was afraid of power. When they had offered him the crown he had cried like a babe.\n\nSheremetev had a lot more sympathy for Joseph Stalin than he had for Nicholas Romanov. And more for Nicholas than for Mikhail. It was God's whimsy to sometimes put a peasant in the blood line of kings, or a let a king be born in a peasant's hovel.\n\nStalin was a king born of base blood. And Mikhail was a peasant borne of some of the noblest blood in Russia. But that whimsy of God's didn't invalidate the concept of royalty, any more than the occasional sport in a fine bloodline of hounds or horses invalidated breeding.\n\nFilaret would have made a better czar, except for his fanatical hatred of Poland. Couldn't they see that the Swede was the danger now?\n**Chapter 31**\n\n**_Grantville_**\n\n**_March 1633_**\n\nVladimir was running late. He had just about given up on doing his own research. There wasn't time. There wasn't really even enough time to provide supervision of the researchers. Not with the sources Francisco Nasi pointed out to him. Yet here he was, because someone in Russia had found something about mica capacitors and wanted to know more because apparently Russia had the best mica in the world. At least, so he was told. He was looking around trying to decide where to start, when he heard a voice.\n\n\"Well, hello, Prince Vladimir. What brings you here?\"\n\nVladimir looked around and saw a vaguely familiar young woman. He couldn't quite place her though she was clearly an up-timer.\n\nWhile he was trying to figure out what to say to the young woman, she spoke again. \"I thought you master-spy types had minions to do this sort of thing.\"\n\nHer knowing that he was a spy wasn't much help, but it did offer something to say. \"I think you must be thinking of Boris, who has gone back to Russia. I'm just a journeyman spy. Besides it's amazingly hard to find minions for this sort of work. Do you know some of them actually insist on having their eyes open when reading the books?\"\n\n\"How horrible for you,\" the young woman said. \"Why, someone might actually find out what they were learning about for you. Now I understand why you hired Bernie for your Dacha. He can read the entire encyclopedia without learning anything.\"\n\nBernie? Yes. This was Natasha's correspondent that Bernie had recommended to her, the one that wrote to her about bras and things. Brandy . . . yes, that was it. This was Brandy Bates. \"Regretfully, Miss Bates, you do Bernie an injustice. From all reports he has proven to be both hard-working and capable.\"\n\n\"So Natasha keeps saying in her letters. But I've known Bernie all my life and it's a bit hard to believe that he's taking anything seriously for more than a couple of months.\" Brandy shrugged \"Maybe he's grown up.\"\n\nActually Brandy's assessment of Bernie would have fit Vladimir's perfectly, when he'd sent Bernie off to Moscow. He'd thought they'd have had to use much more stick to keep him at his work. \"Apparently things changed this spring in Moscow.\"\n\n\"Yes, Bernie wrote me about that. I hope you can get plumbing in before it happens again next year.\"\n\nVladimir felt his head shaking before she had finished her sentence. \"It's most unlikely. Frozen ground is almost as hard to dig as stone. I do understand that there will be some rather draconian punishments for emptying chamber pots in the street and they are going to have barrels and workmen to move those barrels out of town.\"\n\n\"Barrels?\"\n\n\"To empty the chamber pots into.\"\n\n\"It might work as a stopgap measure. Is that what you're doing here, looking for new kinds of barrels or ways of carting them off?\"\n\n\"No, the _Streltzi_ of Moscow, who have apparently taken Bernie to their bosom after last spring, are taking care of that. I am in search of information on mica, muscovite, or Muscovy-glass. It's sometimes used as glass in Moscow windows and someone at the Dacha seems to have discovered that it is an unusually good insulator. It's a potentially high profit export for Russia.\"\n\n\"So, why don't you have your minions doing it, Prince Vladimir? Surely a prince has minions?\"\n\n\"It's that same problem again. The minions insist on reading with their eyes open. Plus the fact that my main researcher just got hired away by a French marquis who may be working for Cardinal Richelieu or the king of France's little brother Gaston. But what are you doing here? Surely no one could hire away your minions. Besides, you're an up-timer. Probably you already know all of this.\" Vladimir waved at the thousands of books casually.\n\n\"No minions, I'm afraid. I'm a researcher. Have card catalog, will cross-reference.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" _Perhaps I can get back to work._ Vladimir felt himself grinning. \"A minion for hire. I pay standard rates.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you see I read with my eyes opened,\" Brandy said, grinning back.\n\n\"Well, in this case it doesn't matter. Poor spy that I am, I've already let you discover that I'm seeking information on mica. Are you sure you're not a spy?\"\n\nBrandy giggled. Then quickly regained her composure and asked what he wanted to know about mica. He told her and they discussed hourly wages, the cost of copying and other fees involved. They reached an agreement and Vladimir was free to get back to his organizational duties.\n\n* * *\n\nBrandy went to work on the mica research, but her tummy was jumping a bit. Well, maybe not her tummy. But something inside her was jumping a bit about something.\n\nThe last thing she'd ever expected was to feel this way about a down-timer. Down-timers were . . . well, down-timers. They didn't quite get civilization.\n\nOver the next few days, she saw Vladimir quite a bit. And that jumping feeling became rather more intense.\n\n* * *\n\nPrince Vladimir had his own sensations. And the more he saw Brandy Bates, the more interesting those feelings got.\n\nIt was hard to know what to do about them. Up-timer women were . . . different. Not suitable for a casual dalliance. And, by Russian standards, not suitable for anything else. Still, he couldn't help wanting to see her.\n\nHe kept finding jobs for her. And then, when he'd worked up the courage, he suggested they have lunch. And lunch led to dinner. And without really realizing it, he had become involved.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Vladimir.\" Brandy waved the letter. \"What precisely is a clan?\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"Your sister is talking about clans. I'm not sure what she means.\" She handed him the letter and waited impatiently as he read it.\n\n\"Clan seems a fairly good word.\" He pursed his lips like he wasn't quite sure. \"I think I would say family connections, but I am not sure. From what I understand, your government frowns on what you call nepotism, right?\"\n\nBrandy nodded, wondering where this was going.\n\n\"Russia is different. Nepotism is an institution of government.\"\n\nBrandy giggled, thinking he must be exaggerating to make his point. But Vladimir was looking serious, even concerned. \"You don't mean _literally_?\"\n\nVladimir nodded. \"Yes. If a person whose extended family is of lower rank is placed over a person whose family is more highly ranked . . .\" Vladimir hesitated.\n\nBrandy had seen it before, both in Vladimir and other down-timers. She had even done it herself, trying to explain things like the Goth style of dress. It wasn't just that the concept was missing; it was that there were half a dozen interrelated concepts that were all a bit different from the down-time concepts.\n\n\"A person's rank in Russia is determined by three things,\" Vladimir finally continued. \"His personal rank in the bureaucracy, his family's rank and his inherited rank. However, they are all at least somewhat mixed together. My family is small but descended from independent princes. Because it is small and doesn't have a lot of connections to other great families, it's fairly weak. In my case, that is somewhat counterbalanced by the fact that I am the prince. But a cousin of mine, if I had one, would be of significantly lower rank than a cousin of Ivan Borisovich Cherkasski, because the Cherkasski family has connections by marriage to many other great families. Also, because the Cherkasski family has served in the government of Russia for many generations and counts several boyars among its ancestors.\n\n\"So, say my cousin and Ivan Borisovich's cousin both get jobs in the bureaus. My cousin, through talent or luck, advances more quickly. So my cousin is placed as section chief over a section in which Ivan Borisovich's cousin serves.\"\n\n\"Makes sense.\"\n\nBut Vladimir was shaking his head. \"Because the Cherkasski clan is higher ranked than the Gorchakov clan, it would be against the law for my cousin to be placed in authority over Ivan Borisovich's. He could have higher personal rank, but still could not be put above Ivan Borisovich's cousin in the same chain of command.\"\n\n\"Like, say, he's a prince?\" Brandy tilted her head to the side.\n\n\"No.\" Prince Vladimir got a bit red in the face. \"I was talking about his rank in the bureaus or the army. Say a colonel in command of a battalion . . . a captain with the higher family rank could not be placed in command of one of the companies of that battalion because that would put him under the orders of the colonel. If the colonel was also a prince, it would be all right because his personal rank would trump the family rank, sort of. It gets a bit complicated. It's the rank of the family as much as that of the individual. The family's situation must be considered first. Before individual wants. Which is one of the things that has made it so hard for our people to accept your innovations. It's common knowledge that you're a 'peasant village' from the future.\"\n\n\"We're not, you know,\" Brandy said. \"I know that's the way we have been portrayed and even how we tend to present ourselves. A village from a nation that didn't have nobility. In a way, it's true, but it would be just as true to say we were a nation of nothing but nobility. What we really don't have, Vladimir, is the distinction.\"\n\n\"And that, Brandy, is even harder for my people to accept,\" Vladimir said, though in his heart he had accepted it. Accepted it because he had to. The proof was here before his eyes and before his heart. In the person of Brandy Bates who was as noble as anyone he had ever met and as common as the barmaid she had been before the Ring of Fire. All classes, all in one beautiful young woman.\n**Chapter 32**\n\n**_The Kremlin_**\n\n**_April 1633_**\n\n\"Death and taxes,\" Bernie muttered as he fell into the chair. \"I'd really prefer a visit from the tax man.\" It was April 15 and Bernie was in the Kremlin. Not because he was really needed but because he was the up-timer and the Muscovites believed that his presence was a shield against the slow fever. Typhoid, that was, in up-timer English. So he went through the hospices where the people who had gotten typhoid fever this spring were being treated with down-time made Gatorade. At least this year they had real instructions on how to make the stuff, not just what Bernie could suck out of his thumb. And they were making their own aspirin for the fever even if they couldn't make chloramphenicol yet.\n\n\"It really does help, Bernie,\" said Father Kiril. \"You up-timers even tested it and gave it a name. Not that they were telling any down-time doctor anything they didn't already know. Or any priest, either, when you come down to it. The placebo effect, they called in your future, and you, Bernie, are a very effective placebo.\"\n\n\"Yes, everything's great,\" Bernie said sourly. \"Natasha, Anya, Filip the whole staff of the Dacha, the mayor of Moscow, the rich and powerful, and the poor and huddled all agree. It's likely that this spring's outbreak of the slow plague will kill fewer than a hundred people. Which is great, if you don't happen to be one of those hundred people. Sorry, Padre. It's just that I know that we could cure this if we had the right antibiotic and we knew how to make them up-time. We even had the knowledge in the Ring of Fire, but we haven't been able to make it. And 'sorry, kid, maybe next year . . . oh yeah, you'll be dead next year' just doesn't make me feel any better.\"\n\n\"All we can do is the best we can do,\" Father Kiril said. \"The Ring of Fire didn't change that. I suspect that nothing ever will.\"\n\n* * *\n\nGuba Ivashka Kalachnikov was very interested in the knowledge from the future. He hadn't been last year, much to his regret. He had found the up-timer uncultured and rude to people who had practiced the healing craft for decades. It wasn't that Guba had any profound objection to washing his hands. True, it wasn't a lot of fun in icy water and heating water was expensive. Boiling it, as the up-timer wanted, was even more so. But he had seen the results. He had seen patients that he would have said would die, live. If the Gatorade had that effect, what about the hand-washing? Since spring of last year Guba had been trying to learn more of the up-timer knowledge so that he might determine how much of what the up-timer said was knowledge and how much ignorance.\n\n\"Quicksilver, mercury,\" he whispered, \"is a poison?\" He wasn't that concerned about the lead that the ladies used in their makeup. There were other things that would work as well for that. He was busily trying to integrate the things that were coming from the Ring of Fire with his experience. He had a lot of the latter; he had been a healer for over forty years.\n\nHe listened to the rest of the list. It was something called a cheat sheet and was being read to him by a clerk from the Grantville Section of the embassy bureau. The clerk was a lad of fifteen and, even though he was Guba's social superior, worked for him doing reading and writing. He paid the boy and thanked him for the service. Guba had never bothered to learn reading and writing. At least not what most people would think of as reading and writing. He used a set of symbols that was partly inherited from his teacher and partly made up by himself to keep track of what drug, prepared in what way, was in each container.\n\nHe worked with potions to relieve pain and balance the humors. He had mixed potions for Czar Ivan when he was an apprentice. Potions that included mercury. The knowledge that his potions might have been what drove Ivan mad didn't sit well. \"Mercury causes delusions?\" he repeated. \"I made drugs that drove Ivan Grozny __ mad? Drugs without which he would not have killed his son and the Time of Troubles would not have happened?\"\n\n_No!_ he thought. _It's lies. It must be._ And yet . . . He could think of no reason for them to lie. At least none that made sense given the circumstances.\n\nThe shop was in Moscow and upscale. Guba knew about drugs and acupuncture and a number of other treatments. He had a large number of very wealthy customers, and he wasn't sure what to do. In more than one way. First, the potion for relieving the pain of swollen joints worked. He knew that; he had seen it. Mercury potions were also the only effective treatment for syphilis that he knew of. The dementia, if it was caused by the drug and not the pain, was a side effect that took multiple doses over a period of time to manifest.\n\nNor did he have a replacement for the drug. Not one that was nearly as effective. He understood from some of the things the boy from the Grantville Section had said that Grantville did have drugs that were effective. The little blue pills of happiness that were supposed to relieve pain and restore manhood. Another called Mary Jane. It didn't matter; he didn't have them and had no practical way to get them or make them. Now he had to change or he would lose all his clients.\n**Chapter 33**\n\n**_May 1633_**\n\nVladimir had just opened the packet from Moscow when Gregorii knocked on the door. He looked at Gregorii, then looked at the clock and stifled a curse. Time had gotten away from him again. Brandy Bates and her mother, Donna, had agreed to come to dinner tonight. It would be a quiet dinner, just the three of them. \"All right, Gregorii, show them in.\"\n\nOne of the letters in the packet caught his eye. Surely it must be important. As all of them were\u2014to their originators, at any rate. Vladimir was beginning to dread the packets, in truth. There was yet another over-large stack of letters in this packet. Vladimir knew they would contain more requests, demands, and commands, depending on who the writer was. And probably half of the questions would have already been answered.\n\nThe turnaround time for communications was over two months. The message packets came every week or so. Often he got requests for clarification of some point, did the research and sent an answer. Then a week or two later he got another message saying \"never mind, we figured it out.\" They had obviously solved the problem before he ever got the request. Sometimes their solutions matched the answer he had sent and sometimes not.\n\nSometimes their solutions were better than the answer he had sent. That meant opportunities Vladimir could take advantage of here in Grantville. There were, as of his last report, something like a hundred of the brightest minds in Russia living in his dacha a few miles outside of Moscow. This wasn't anywhere near the number of bright minds that were in Grantville by now, but still constituted a fairly robust R&D facility, to use an American term. Sometimes they came up with solutions that the up-timers wouldn't because the up-timers \"knew\" it didn't work that way.\n\nVladimir averaged sending one message packet a week back to Moscow. Usually it would include the most recently copied up-timer books and what answers he had been able to get for the lists of questions that came in every packet.\n\nGregorii announced Brandy and Donna moments after he broke open the impressive looking letter. As they were shown in, he read the first paragraph. \"Will you look at this!\" Vladimir stood and stomped around the room. \"Just look at it!\" The letter had the imperial seals as well as those of the Russian Orthodox church. It was from Filaret, the patriarch of the church. Who also happened to be the father of the czar.\n\n\"Well, I could.\" Brandy shrugged. \"But it wouldn't do much good since I can't read your language. Not enough, at least. Suppose you just tell me what it says.\"\n\nVladimir stopped his pacing and looked startled for a moment. \"Ah . . . yes. I forget. You've learned so much about me and my country that I feel you must know the language better by now. Silly of me, I suppose. Come, ladies, come. Sit down, please. Will you have a glass of wine?\"\n\nBrandy smiled. \"I do the same thing. It always surprises me when you need a word translated these days. Anyway, what does that very impressive looking letter say? It must be important, considering all the seals and ribbons. And yes, please. After this day, I could use a glass. I could use several, for that matter.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Donna Ivanovna, was the government in your America as impossible to please as mine is?\" Vladimir's face was still a bit flushed with irritation. \"The patriarch, of all people, sends me a request to have the entire library sent to Moscow. Impossible, totally impossible. Have they no idea of the size of such a project? Have they any idea of the expense?\n\n\"Oh, and you will love this part.\" Vladimir waved the paper again. \"At the same time, I am to prevent the sale of up-timer books to other nations. Especially Poland and nations ruled by the Habsburgs. And I am to prevent the books from falling into the hands of the Roman church. The group that's reprinting the Americana has three priests and an agent of a Polish magnate in it! Let me read you this. It is impossible.\"\n\n_\"To Kniaz Vladimir Petrovich Gorchakov_\n\n_It is most necessary that the knowledge of the up-timers be limited to those of the true faith or at the very least provided to those of us of the orthodox church first. This must happen before it becomes available to those influenced by Rome. You must acquire the library, especially the National Library, mentioned in your dispatches and send it to the Church as soon as possible._\n\n_You are to be congratulated on sending so many books so rapidly. As you know, I am an expert on books and the time it takes to make copies. It is clear that you are somehow acquiring originals of the books you have sent because so many could not have been copied so quickly._\n\n_The spiritual tracts and philosophical knowledge gained by the up-timers must especially be sent to the church first. This is so that they may be reviewed before they are released. We wish to avoid partial understanding and crisis of faith among the followers of the true faith._\n\n_Further, it is essential that advances in techniques, new techniques and the knowledge of science be limited to nations that share in our beliefs. Some Protestant nations, particularly Sweden, may be allowed this knowledge but it must be kept from Poland and the Habsburgs. Especially, knowledge of medicines and healing must be controlled, lest the unscrupulous Roman clergy use it to bolster faith in their misinterpretation of God's word._\n\n\"Can you believe it?\" Vladimir asked.\n\nMrs. Bates very nearly snorted wine up her nose.\n\nBrandy was looking both concerned and confused. \"He knows better, doesn't he?\"\n\nVladimir was still stalking around the room and waving his arms in the air, but Brandy's question brought him up short. The answer was; of course, the patriarch knew that the demands were beyond impossible, well into the range of ridiculous. So what would make him write such a set of demands? It almost had to be that someone else was reading them or that they were being put on the record to demonstrate that the patriarch had instructed Vladimir thus and if Vladimir had failed to act on his instructions then it wasn't the patriarch's fault.\n\nBut now wasn't the time to go into all that. Vladimir slumped into a chair and poured his own glass of wine. \"Every week I send a report. And every week I get more and more impossible requests. And I have no doubt that there are at least half a dozen more in this packet alone.\" A piece of paper fell out of it.\n\n\"Well, if it isn't going to violate national security or something, why don't you pull them out and read them to us?\" Brandy suggested. \"That way you can blow off steam before you try to answer them.\"\n\nVladimir dug into the packet of letters and grinned mischievously. \"Oh, you're going to enjoy this, Brandy. Here. You have a letter from Bernie.\" He handed her the letter.\n\nAfter she took it, he picked up another missive. He was glad to see it had fewer ribbons and seals.\n\n\"Oh, no.\" Brandy stared at the letter like it might be a snake. \"Two months ago it was 'send me an egg beater.' Last month it was 'send me a generator.' And we've done it, every time. What do you suppose Bernie wants now? I'm almost afraid to read it.\" Brandy glared at the letter, suspicion all over her face.\n\nMrs. Bates stifled another snort at the look she wore. \"Come on, Brandy! At least it will be in English. Read it to us.\"\n\n\"Okay, Mom.\" Brandy gingerly opened the letter. \"I'll read it. But hang on to your hat. There's just no telling, there really isn't.\"\n\n_\"Hey, girl.\"_\n\n\"You know,\" Brandy muttered, \"he could use my name, just to freaking be polite.\" She continued,\n\n_\"Well, if Dad really wants the old car out of the way how about we do this? I'm sending you an authorization to take money out of my savings account. Will you give Dad some money for me? Tell him it's a storage fee, or something. Anything to keep him from getting rid of the car. Then, if you could have Vladimir get someone to pull the engine out of it for me, I'd really appreciate it. I'm enclosing a bill of sale from me to you, just in case._\n\n_The body doesn't really matter that much, but I want the engine and the transmission. Actually, I'd like to have all of it, but there's probably no way to ship it, not in one piece. Ask Vladimir, will you? I'd take it all if I could get it._\n\n_I've asked Natasha to ask Boris (I love that . . . Boris and Natasha, the Russian spies) to authorize paying for the transport back here. If worse comes to worst, we'll tear the whole thing apart and try to build our own version. God, I miss the car, I really do._\n\n_Thanks, Bernie_\n\n\"Oh, Lord.\" Mrs. Bates giggled. \"Bernie wants his car. In Russia. In the year 1633. That makes a lot of sense.\"\n\nBrandy, Vladimir and Mrs. Bates laughed. \"I can't imagine what he'll do with it.\" Brandy shook her head. \"What do you think, Vladimir? Should you send Bernie his car?\"\n\nVladimir slumped farther into his chair but smiled. \"I told you there would be more impossible demands, didn't I? As to whether or not we should send the car, yes, we should. And also anything else that might help. I sent them information on the steam engines you built for your power plant months ago. They can't build them. Natasha tried to have them built in Murom and they failed completely. But Russia needs some kind of motive force even more than Germany does.\"\n\nBrandy grinned. \"The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer. As it happens, there's a new booklet out on making steam pumps. We can send them that. It might help. So what's that other thing you got in that letter?\"\n\nVladimir waved a piece of paper. \"Money. Money like yours, in fact.\" He passed it to Brandy, who looked at it and passed it on to her mother.\n\n\"Colorful,\" Mrs. Bates said.\n\nIt was. About four by eight inches, printed in red, yellow and blue. \"Who's this?\"\n\n\"Czar Mikhail.\" Vladimir pointed at the images. \"A cross, a proper cross, on the other end.\"\n\nMrs. Bates flipped the paper over. \"And that would be the palace, I suppose? Or a government building of some sort?\"\n\n\"The Kremlin.\" Vladimir took the bill back.\n\n\"And what does the writing say?\" Mrs. Bates looked at him curiously.\n\n\"This bill is legal tender for all debts, by order of the czar, with the support of the _Boyar_ _Duma_ and the _Zemsky Sobor_. One ruble.\"\n\n\"Bernie or you, Vladimir? I mean, this isn't the sort of thing that Bernie would come up with.\" Brandy had known Bernie Zeppi for years. This wasn't his sort of thing.\n\n\"Me, mostly. I started sending information about your banking system before Bernie left. On the other hand, I'll wager any amount you name that members of the _Zemsky Sobor,_ that's the Assembly of the Land, consulted with Bernie before they signed off on it.\"\n**Chapter 34**\n\nVladimir believed in going to the best source he could find. He discussed the matter of book copying with the staff of the research center, then sent the patriarch information on the book-copying system they had instituted. Parts of it, like scanning pages into computers, could not be replicated in Russia. Other parts could, like the waxed silk sheets for the new duplicating machines.\n\nHaving, he hoped, explained to the patriarch, or whoever the patriarch thought was reading their mail, that he could not just buy the National Library and ship it off to the Kremlin, he set to work on the next impossible demand. He made an appointment with Wilkie Andersen, the Tech Center teacher of auto mechanics. The man had the strangest desk he had ever seen. It was red and appeared to be the front end of a truck. Wilkie noticed him staring and pressed a button. The blaring noise rocked Vladimir back on his feet.\n\nWilkie grinned. \"That always got the students' attention. Yes, it is the front end of a S10 pickup truck. And I've hooked the horn up to the electricity. I don't honk it that much, but I still enjoy seeing people jump. Now, what can I do for you, Mister . . . ah . . . Gorchakov?\"\n\n\"I came because I have a question. Is it possible to 'pull the engine' of a 'car' and have it transported to another place?\"\n\nWilkie nodded. \"Sure You can pull any engine. But some of them won't do you much good. What kind of engine is it? And what do you want to use it for?\"\n\n\"I'm told it is a 1972 Dodge Charger.\" Vladimir waved the bill of sale Bernie had sent. \"I don't really know what that means, but that's the car. Bernie Zeppi wants me to pull the engine and transmission and send it to him in Russia. I'm here to find out if that is possible.\"\n\n\"Not a bad choice.\" Wilkie leaned back in his chair and motioned Vladimir to another. \"It's a good bit less complicated than some. No computers in it, at any rate. And I remember that car. Bernie bought it for a couple of hundred dollars back when he took my classes. We restored it together, out in the shop. Me, Bernie, all the class. Leon McCarthy, from the body shop classes, even got involved and fixed a couple of dents. But why pull the engine? Why don't you just put it in neutral and pull it with horses? Bernie's car has a stick shift so you don't have to worry about protecting an automatic transmission over a long tow. That car's got a rear wheel drive, though, so make sure you disconnect and remove the drive shaft or you'll wreck the transmission. How far does it have to travel and what are the roads like?\"\n\nMost of the response was meaningless to Vladimir, beyond the apparent assurance that the vehicle could be towed intact as long as certain precautions were taken. He could figure those out later. For the moment, he concentrated on the last question, which he did understand.\n\n\"It has to go to Moscow and will make a good part of the trip by way of the Baltic Sea.\" Vladimir shrugged. \"The roads are fairly bad. Horrible, by up-timer standards. On the other hand, we can use more than two horses if we have to.\"\n\n\"Russia used to have oil wells up-time.\" Wilkie leaned forward. \"Are you folks planning on getting into the oil business or do you figure on buying gas from the Wietze oil fields? I gotta tell you, they aren't getting much high octane yet.\"\n\n\"I have no idea,\" Vladimir admitted. \"For all I know they want to use the engine as a planter for up-timer roses. I am also told to send those.\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Wilkie shrugged away the possibility of Russian oil fields. \"If you can get it onto and off of the boat, it really might be easier just to tow the darn thing. Sure, it weighs more than a wagon. But it's also got shocks and ball bearings on the wheels. Most of the time it'll be easier to pull than a wagon, even with the engine in it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBrandy was in the research center when Vladimir found her. \"What's up?\" she asked.\n\n\"Your Mr. Wilkie says that Russia in the up-time had oil fields. If they were there in the up-time, they will be there now. I wish to locate them. And I shall have to arrange for some people to come here for training at the oil field. In fact, I should probably have a number of people come here.\"\n\nBrandy sat down at the table across from Vladimir and nodded. \"Probably not a bad idea. Who will you have come?\"\n\n\"We already have a fair sized staff at the _Residentz_.\" Vladimir had bought a half-acre lot in Castle Hills, the upscale housing development that had grown up just north of the Ring of Fire. Then he'd put a fair-sized mansion\u2014or smallish hotel\u2014on the lot. \"But this is too much for just a few people to absorb. I'm going to write Natasha and have her pick the best of the people from our lands. As well, I'm sure she knows some students who would be interested.\" Vladimir looked Brandy in the eyes and said in a serious tone, \"Russian politics are not pretty, Brandy. Not pretty at all. It hasn't been that long since Czar Ivan the Terrible and the Time of Troubles. It will take a lot of work, but I believe most strongly that Russia must take advantage of the knowledge in Grantville. That is why, although it will be atrociously expensive, I will send Bernie his car. I will send books. Eventually, I hope to send teachers.\"\n\n\"You're not trying to be Peter the Great, are you?\" Brandy asked. \"I just don't see you going around cutting off beards and all that silly stuff.\"\n\n\"Not silly, my dear. Not silly at all.\" Vladimir made a vague gesture and frowned. \"It was a symbol. And symbols can be very powerful. The beards might have been the wrong symbol at the wrong time, perhaps. But something had to be done. Or rather, would have had to be done, had it not been for the Ring of Fire.\"\n\nVladimir sighed. \"The history of my country isn't a happy one, not according to the very few books here in Grantville. These books, they barely mention the time of troubles after the death of Ivan the Terrible, the three false Dmitris that left Russia bleeding and broken. Poland invaded and took Patriarch Filaret prisoner. The Poles held him prisoner for years, Brandy. That was after he was forced to take a vow of chastity by Boris Godunov. The purpose of the vow was to disqualify him from the throne.\"\n\nVladimir stared into the distance. \"It hardened him, Brandy. Which may well be to the good. I don't know whether it was being forced to take holy orders or the imprisonment. Whatever it was that caused it, he was different when he came back. There is a cold-blooded practicality that wasn't there before. He manipulates everyone. The czar most of all. Mikhail Fedorovich is not in control. His father is.\"\n\n\"Do you know him?\" Brandy settled in for a long talk. \"The czar, I mean.\" She couldn't help but be interested. Vladimir attracted her in a way that few people did. She wanted to understand him and his country.\n\n\"Yes. My family is very wealthy, on the whole. And the treasury was bare when Mikhail came to the throne. My sister and I are the last of our particular branch, which concentrated the wealth even more. So we were invited to court quite a bit. Not as much as some, but fairly often. Our father traveled for the embassy bureau for many years; it gave us a different outlook. Natasha and I were educated more than most.\" Vladimir's face grew more animated. \"Natasha does know the czarina quite well, and I have sent her letters and books. Perhaps the czarina, with Natasha's help, can become more of an influence.\"\n\n\"I've gotten to know the czarina fairly well through the letters we've traded,\" Brandy said. \"I don't think that she's in a position to do much. You said once that the czar supports Gustavus Adolphus, didn't you? Or is that his father's doing?\"\n\n\"Some of both, I think.\" Vladimir leaned forward. \"Money. Always a problem, the money. The Poles cleaned out the Russian treasury. The Time of Troubles left roving bands of thieves that traveled through Russia, some of them even now, after nearly twenty years of Mikhail's rule. Mikhail is loved by the people but he is not very strong. He is governed by the boyars and the great houses. I respect your system of government, Brandy. I really do. But how much of it can be adapted to Russia . . . that is hard to say. I don't know how much we can do. We have Natasha. We have your Bernie, even. I will work for change, with all my heart.\"\n\n\"I'll help.\" Brandy stood up. \"As much as I can.\"\n**Chapter 35**\n\n**_June 1633_**\n\n\"Well, let's see.\" Bernie said, pointing. \"The acquisition is recorded here and here because it's a . . .\" He continued doing his best to give Anya an idea of what the accounting book said about how to prevent or catch different ways of cooking the books. By now Anya was better at accounting than Bernie was or wanted to be. But the expertise was in English and while Anya was learning accounting, English and the way of thinking that went with modern English was still mostly foreign to her. By now Bernie had gotten really good at translating between modern English and seventeenth-century English. And not bad at taking the next step and translating from modern English to seventeenth-century Russian. So he explained about the esoterics of accounting, and neither he nor Anya noticed Filip Pavlovich standing in the background listening. Not till Filip cleared his throat.\n\n\"What?\" Bernie looked up. \"Oh, hi, Phil. What are you doing up at this\u2014\" Bernie looked at his watch. \"\u2014ungodly hour?\"\n\n\"The bathroom woke me,\" Filip said sardonically. \"Chamber pots are quieter and they can be emptied in safe ways.\"\n\n\"Can be,\" Anya said, \"but rarely are.\" Which, though Bernie didn't notice it, brought Filip up short.\n\n\"That's an interesting observation, Anya,\" Filip said. \"And not the sort of thing a maid would say.\"\n\nBernie felt himself stiffen and Filip waved a gentling hand. \"I wasn't criticizing. I know I often sound like I am even when I'm not.\" Filip grinned at them. \"Which is rare enough.\"\n\nBernie's lips twitched.\n\n\"It was simply an observation. What drew me up short when Anya spoke up wasn't that she was getting above herself, but that I didn't mind that she was getting above herself. If that makes any sense?\" He looked between them. \"Bernie, before you arrived in Moscow I would have been offended. Deeply offended. Offended enough to have her dismissed or seriously punished. I would hazard a guess that before you arrived, Anya would never have thought to say such a thing in my presence.\" Filip looked to Anya for confirmation and got it from a clearly anxious woman.\n\n\"There is nothing to worry about, Anya, at least not here,\" Filip said. \"What it did was bring into focus something that has been bothering me for some time now. Petr was explaining to me yet again how everything was an interaction of forces.\"\n\n\"For the hundredth time,\" Bernie said.\n\n\"Oh, much more often than that,\" Anya said.\n\n\"And I couldn't get him to shut up about it. 'Fine, yes, water flows downhill because of gravity. I understand already' I told him. 'No you don't,' he told me. 'It's not just water and it's not just gravity, it's everything. Magnetism, electricity, alchemy . . . it's all forces acting on things.' Well, naturally, I didn't pay all that much attention to it, but still there was something about it that bothered me. Something I couldn't quite figure out or get out of my head. Not till just now.\" Filip paused, lost in thought again.\n\n\"Well, go on!\" Bernie said.\n\nFilip looked over at Anya and there was something in his expression like he was, well, almost scared. Certainly cautious. Then he visibly squared his shoulders, and went on. \"If a rock doesn't keep going on and on forever because of external forces, if rocks aren't lazy by their nature as Aristotle said, what about serfs?\"\n\n\"What _about_ serfs?\" Bernie asked.\n\nStill looking at Anya, Filip said. \"Are serfs tied to the land because it's their nature to be so or because some external force like social drag or social gravity is holding them down?\"\n\n\"Because they are held in serfdom, of course.\" Bernie was more than a little confused. There were laws in Russia that prevented a serf from leaving the land he was bound to. Filip knew that. Hell, Filip was the one who had told Bernie. Bernie looked at Anya and she was looking at Filip like she was seeing a ghost.\n\n\"Okay, guys,\" Bernie said slowly. \"I'm clearly missing something here. Serfs are serfs because they are forced to be. There are laws that tie them to the land. Slaves are slaves, again because they are forced to be. Once again, there are laws that allow them to be held against their will, bought, sold, and generally abused.\" Bernie hesitated, then went on. \"I know I'm a stranger in a strange land here. I know I was not hired to change your society or your laws. But the laws that make people be treated like property are wrong. They are self-evidently wrong. But they are there and I can't change them and if I try it will destroy all the good I'm trying to do here. I figured that out before I left Grantville and I was drunk as a skunk then. That's why I've never made an issue of it. I knew it was wrong, and, to be honest, I figured you had to know it was wrong too. But you weren't about to give it up, so what was there to say?\n\n\"So, now you're both sitting there shocked as hell about something as simple and obvious as water flowing dow . . .\"\n\nFilip was looking at Bernie like _yes, go on, shove your foot the rest of the way into your mouth._\n\n\"But there are laws,\" Bernie said \"Clearly an external force. Right?\"\n\n\"Yes, Bernie, laws,\" Filip said. \"But laws to do what? To force the serfs and slaves into a state of servitude or to keep those whose nature is servitude from misbehaving and causing trouble?\"\n\n\"I have, you know,\" Anya said, \"always believed deep in my heart that I should not be a servant . . . but I never really thought that forced servitude was wrong. I just felt that it should be forced on someone else, not me.\"\n\nBernie looked at Anya and Filip and they were looking at each other like they were both watching a horror movie and couldn't look away. Servant and master, not directly, not to each other, but the odds were pretty good, Bernie knew, that Anya was actually a runaway serf or possibly a slave. She'd been working as kitchen help, and whatever else she could find, when the job at the Dacha had come up and she'd gotten it because she was pretty.\n\nBernie was still confused. He knew something important had happened, but he didn't know what. Another truth, as important, or perhaps more important, than the change from Aristotle to Newton had occurred in this candle-lit room, and somewhere deep down inside Bernie sensed that this was a lot more dangerous than Newton's three laws. He wondered how long it would be before the pebbles dropped in this room started an avalanche.\n\n* * *\n\nAs it happened it wasn't long at all, though avalanches do take time. The next pebble was dropped by Filip. \"Did you know,\" he said to Natasha, \"that Anya is learning accounting?\"\n\n\"What? Bernie's tart?\" Natasha asked. \"What on earth for? It's not like she gets paid by the . . . encounter.\" Natasha wasn't pleased with Bernie's extracurricular activities but men were men, especially in Russia. Then Natasha noticed that Filip had stiffened.\n\n\"Never mind, Princess, It wasn't important,\" Filip said.\n\n\"I think perhaps it is,\" Natasha said. \"Clearly it's important to you. Why don't you tell me why?\"\n\nFilip did, stumbling a bit but clearly showing he was impressed by Anya. He explained about his finding Bernie and Anya studying accounting and the ensuing discussion. Filip impressed by Anya? Filip, who couldn't see past the edge of the book he was reading and didn't care about breast size, just brain size? Anya had a brain? Well, yes, apparently she did. That was a pretty astute observation about chamber pots and the safe emptying of same.\n\nAfter Filip ran down she thanked him for his help, asked a few questions and let him get back to work. Then she thought about it a bit and had Anya fetched.\n\n* * *\n\n\"You called for me, Princess?\" Anya entered the princess' office with more than simple trepidation. She was scared to death. She remembered the conversation of the night before and she was very much afraid that in spite of Filip's assurances that it was all right here at the Dacha, it wasn't. At least it wasn't when a great lady was looking for a reason to discipline a maid who was having a bit of fun with a guy the great lady was interested in. Women in power were dangerous to girls like her.\n\n\"I understand you're having Bernie teach you accounting?\" Princess Natasha said.\n\nAnya thought this was a set up to punish her for getting above herself. \"Yes, Princess. Of course, if you feel it's interfering with my duties . . .\"\n\n\"Not at all.\" The princess actually smiled a bit. Much to Anya's surprise.\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"I said, not at all,\" the princess repeated. \"I'm a bit, um, startled by it, but why would you want to learn accounting . . . considering your other assets?\"\n\nThe princess was blushing a little bit as she said that. There was an edge. Natasha didn't like what Anya was doing with Bernie. Or no. Anya realized Natasha didn't like that _she_ was doing it with Bernie. The princess really was jealous of the serving girl, though she probably didn't realize it.\n\nThey talked about Anya's observation about chamber pots. Which led to questions about what else Anya had observed. They talked books. Bernie had taught Anya to read and she had picked it up well. Anya had gotten the job in part because she had a bit of English from a previous employer who had been all hands. \"Why did he teach you to read?\"\n\n\"Because I asked.\"\n\n\"Why did you ask? I don't mean, why did you want to know how to read, I mean why did you think Bernie would teach you?\" The princess' blush was even brighter now. \"When men are, ah, with girls like you, that's not what they're interested in.\"\n\n\"Not all men are the same, Princess, not even about that. The English merchant who was all hands never would have taught me to read.\" Anya shrugged. \"Bernie likes smart women. That's why he likes you. Besides, he's a nice man and wanted someone to talk to in his up-timer English and teaching me to read helped with that.\"\n\nThey ended up talking girl talk for quite a while that afternoon and the beginnings of a friendship were put in place. After that, Anya became Natasha's personal maid and confidant.\n\n* * *\n\nLazar Smirnov barely noticed that Anya's status had changed. Lazar had his own companionship and wasn't any more interested in politics than he could avoid. The gradual change in attitude of Filip Pavlovich Tupikov that had been crystallized by conversation over accounting books a few nights back had passed him by completely.\n\nLazar had his own problems. Granted, none of them were all that severe taken on their own but they couldn't really be taken on their own. Lazar was trying to build an entire infrastructure. Storage batteries required lead plates and sulfuric acid. Enough batteries to power a spark gap transmitter of good range required lots of lead plates and lots of sulfuric acid. Not that much of a problem. Lead, after all, was not gold, and improved processes for the production of sulfuric acid had been forwarded to him by Vladimir and his friend Lady Brandy Bates, G.E.D. So there was a factory on the Muskova River that producing the stuff by the gallon. Which was good, because he needed gallons for each spark gap transmitter.\n\nHe had serfs on his estates making clay battery jars to hold the acid and the lead plates. Or at least they were till a few weeks ago. Now they were planting, sowing the seeds of the fall harvest. But once that was done, many of them would go back to making the parts he needed to create an electronics industry.\n\nLike copper wire to make the generators to charge the batteries, to use to make the permanent magnets to make more generators. And it wasn't just radios Russia needed, whatever the _Boyar Duma_ said. What Russia needed was the whole infrastructure. Even if they had only needed radios, the number of parts in a radio network was significant. The transmitter tuning coil, the transmitter spark capacitor, the transmitter spark coil, the transmitter spark generating buzzer, a telegraph key, a switch to switch between the receiver and the transmitter for the antenna, an earphone, a receiver tuning coil, a receiver capacitor\u2014which was not the same thing as a transmitter capacitor\u2014a grounding rod, wire going to the grounding rod. None of these things were really hard to do, not by themselves. It was just that there were so many.\n\nThere were four radios in Russia. Two that Lazar had made and two that had been imported. Of the two that he had made, one was here at the Dacha and one was in the Kremlin. But Lazar was also building, a bit at a time, the infrastructure to build more radios, faster. They would have one for the Gun Shop by month after next, and by then\u2014if all went well\u2014they would be turning out about one spark gap transmitter a month. It would be a while before the government got the network it desired.\n\nIn a vague way Lazar Smirnov knew that he was making central control in Russia much easier, but he didn't give it much thought. That the increasing awareness of the rights of people in other parts of time and space were making the ties to the land insufferable to some and others were increasingly threatened by the notion of freedom? That, he didn't notice at all.\n**Chapter 36**\n\n**_July 1633_**\n\n_A Dissertation on the Value of Freedom and Security_\n\n_\"Those who give up their freedom for a little temporary security deserve neither freedom nor security and ultimately will lose both.\" So goes an up-time quote. This humble writer doesn't know whether that is true or not, but it is demonstrably true that the nation it comes from\u2014founded on principles of freedom\u2014grew to be one of the richest and most powerful in the world._\n\n_That nation had no greater resources than the Russia of its time. But it had a great deal more wealth. Why is that, I wonder? The question troubles my sleep at night._\n\n_The Time of Troubles is a weak name for what Russia went though at the beginning of this century. It has perhaps made us a bit timid, afraid of freedom. It's so much easier when everyone knows their place and no one is allowed to argue or try something new. So much safer it seems. But I wonder, safe for how long?_\n\n_Bandits are mostly gone from our roads and villages now. Surely that is a good thing. It seems worth a bit of freedom. What use, after all, is freedom to a man murdered by bandits? Is it worth, perhaps, the right of a serf to leave the lands of his lord? Some of those serfs might become bandits and make our roads unsafe yet again. Yet, why was this America, with its freedom, so rich? Where did its great wealth come from?_\n\n_Much of it came from people leaving their work and striking out on their own. From people who left their homes and tried to do something that they had never done before. A man named Bell tried to find a way to make the deaf hear. Instead he found a way to send his voice and thousands of other voices thousands of miles along a wire. Another man, named Edison, hated transcribing the messages he received to send on. So he made a machine that did the job. This type of event happened again and again and made the land that the up-timers came from the richest in their world. Was it the freedom that did it? I think it may have been. For the same rule that prevents a serf from becoming a bandit also prevents him from becoming an inventor, or a merchant._\n\n_As I think of these things I can't help but wonder if we are beggaring our children to buy a bit of security for ourselves. The history of Holy Mother Russia that was written in that other time saw the fading away of the_ Zemsky Sobor. _It is barely even mentioned in their records. How did we allow that to happen? Are we, perhaps, afraid of the responsibilities of voting for representatives we trust? How will Mother Russia compete with nations that have spent a bit of their security to buy a little freedom for themselves and their posterity?_\n\n_ The Flying Squirrel_\n\nNatasha set the pamphlet aside. What Russia was, she decided, depended a lot on how you looked at it. She had looked at it one way all her life, now she was looking again. \"Aunt Sofia, what do you think of American democracy?\"\n\nThe woman chuckled. She was tiny, four foot ten and weighed all of eighty pounds. Yet, when needed, she could put on such an expression of fierceness that boyars and bureau chiefs blanched. Fortunately, at the moment she didn't have her game face on. Her eyes twinkled. \"Bernie again or one of the pamphlets? I don't know enough about it to have much of an opinion. From what I've heard, I cannot imagine it working, but obviously in some way it did. It must be different from what the Poles have that leaves their government so paralyzed.\"\n\n\"Well, according to Bernie, women vote as well as men, peasants as well as princes.\"\n\n\"I approve of the first and disapprove of the second. Peasants lack the knowledge of the wider world to understand the issues of a great nation. They lack the intellect for matters of state. Instead, they have low cunning.\" The eyes laughed. \"Of course, I am a woman of the nobility. Were I a man\u2014and a peasant\u2014I might have a different opinion.\"\n\nNatasha looked up at her smiling aunt with some irritation, then back down at the piles of papers on her worktable. She had two inboxes and two outboxes. One set was for what the Dacha was doing and what the nerd patrol wanted to do and her approval or disapproval of the same. The other had income and expenses for the Dacha and, for that matter, the rest of the Gorchakov estates. The pamphlet on the cost of freedom and security was an issue she didn't have time for.\n\n\"I have another letter from Brandy.\" Natasha changed the subject, setting down the pamphlet and picking up the letter.\n\n\"And what does she have to say?\"\n\n\"Quite a lot. They are making electric crock-pots in Grantville now and she is sending me some.\" Natasha scanned down the letter. \"Well, well. It seems that Brandy is now working part-time for my brother. I wonder if I should warn her of his defects of personality or pray that she can cure them?\"\n\nSofia gave her a suppressing look. \"Warn her off. The political consequences could be difficult.\"\n\n\"I was joking.\" Natasha gave back the standard look of young women who are hearing silly advice from old women who don't understand. \"Brandy is doing research in the National Library of theirs. Finding answers to the questions we send them.\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\" Aunt Sofia didn't sound convinced.\n\nNatasha went back to her letter. \"She repeats that we should stay away from lead-based makeup. And sends some cheat sheets on making white makeup without lead oxide. In Grantville, and to an extent in the rest of the New U.S., women can pursue any career that men can. A woman can be an artist, an engineer, a person of business. She mentions a group of young girls who have gotten rich investing in many and varied enterprises since the Ring of Fire and she, as a researcher in the library, makes quite a good living for herself. She goes on to say how rewarding the work is in ways other than financial. She, her work, is making the world a better place.\" Natasha's voice, in spite of her intent, had risen in tone and volume as she said that last.\n\nAunt Sofia lifted her arms and patted the air. \"Calm, child, calm. Stop and think a moment. Women do the same in Russia. Not all calls to holy orders are calls to God. Quite a few are calls away from the restriction of the outside world.\"\n\n\"But they don't\u2014\"\n\nAunt Sofia was holding up her hand. \"I understood what you meant,\" Sofia said. \"My point was that there was already an acceptable way to avoid the responsibilities of family. And how do these women live? They get jobs, just as your friend Brandy.\"\n\nNatasha nodded cautiously.\n\n\"And, Natasha, what do you do in the Dacha?\"\n\nNatasha stopped dead. What she did in the Dacha was run it. She used Vladimir's authority as head of the family, but she ran the Dacha. Her authority there was pretty much unquestioned. \"I wasn't just thinking of me. Though I would like to see Grantville. Perhaps even live there for a time. I was thinking of all the other women of Russia.\"\n\n\"Of course you were.\" Aunt Sofia sounded doubtful. Then she laughed at Natasha's expression. \"But all the women of Russia can't move to Grantville! What would the men do? Nor can we make Russia into a copy of Grantville, not without losing Russia and ourselves in the process. Quietly, calmly. Think each step through. Plan. You are a _knyazhna_ , not a peasant. Consider the church, also. Think about what the church will have to say. If that doesn't calm you down, consider how most of the women of Russia will react.\"\n\nSofia held up her hand. \"Consider,\" she insisted again. \"If a woman can be a soldier, then a woman can be made to be a soldier. Yes? Would you have women of the boyar class working in the fields like peasant women? Would Madame Cherkasski agree to have her status based on her position in the bureaucracy? She can't read, you know. And she heartily disapproves of those who can. It wasn't the men of Russia who poisoned Mikhail's first choice for a bride. Think about that. For now, at least, leave politics aside and concentrate on the Dacha.\"\n\nThat was, Natasha knew, very good advice, though the pamphlet suggested that not everyone followed it. Natasha wondered again who the writer was. She remembered for a moment the joke about Boris and Natasha and the hunt for the moose and the flying squirrel.\n\nRussia had flying squirrels. They were hunted for their fur and were elusive and hard to catch.\n\n* * *\n\nSofia shook her head as she left Natasha to her work. The degree to which her brother had sheltered his children from the realities of Russian politics sometimes appalled her. The degree to which Natasha's mother had shielded her from the reality of sexual relations appalled her even more. The girl knew nothing about the emotions involved. So little, in fact, that she failed to recognize her obvious\u2014to Sofia\u2014interest in Bernie. This wasn't the first time Sofia had tried to get her niece to notice how she was reacting.\n\nNatasha was always aware of Bernie. She was aware of him even when he wasn't in the room. She listened to every casual comment and even though she clearly knew better, she gave those comments and beliefs considerably more weight than they deserved.\n\nWhy, Natasha didn't even realize that she was envious of the various servant girls who saw to Bernie's needs!\n\nNot that Sofia wasn't concerned by Vladimir's interest in the Bates girl, but at least he had been encouraged to get a certain amount of practice, as were all men of his class in Russia. Natasha was most certainly a virgin and, because of her mother's attitudes, Natasha had had very little even theoretical knowledge until she started corresponding with Brandy Bates. She was totally unprepared for the feelings Sofia could tell she was having for Bernie, which effectively prevented Sofia from being able to offer advice on how to deal with them.\n\nThe only good news here was that Bernie was also unaware of Natasha's interest. Sofia hoped he continued to be unaware. The political consequences of Vladimir getting involved with an up-time woman would be bad. The political consequences of Natasha getting involved with an up-timer would be worse. Partly because Natasha was a woman, and partly because Bernie was right here in Russia.\n\nPerhaps Sofia should encourage Natasha to visit the estates in Murom. Take that new steam barge downriver. That should keep her distracted. Sofia could only hope that the distraction wasn't fatal, considering that the first boiler they made had blown up.\n\n* * *\n\n\"It must have come from the Dacha!\" Sheremetev roared at the patriarch. For most people roaring at Patriarch Filaret was a serious, sometimes fatal, mistake. Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev wasn't most people. He was a cousin of the czar and one of the most powerful nobles in Russia.\n\n\"Do not shout at me, Cousin,\" Filaret snarled back. \"It may have come from the Dacha or it may have come from the bureaus\u2014not even necessarily the Grantville Section. The same sort of thing is coming from Germany and Sweden. The up-timers' founding fathers are often quoted.\"\n\n\"Wherever it comes from, the writer, this Flying Squirrel, needs its pelt removed and publicly. We can't allow this sort of rhetoric and you know it. After what that fool Zeppi did in Moscow last spring, anything attributed to an up-time source is given extra credence almost as though it were holy writ.\"\n\n\"I know, and that is the very reason we must tread carefully. Aside from offending the Gorchakovs, who have shown themselves both loyal and of considerable financial worth to the czar, a raid or attack on the Dacha would engender quite a bit of ill-feeling among the people. Further, I don't want to give it that much credence.\"\n\nSheremetev wasn't satisfied but Filaret wouldn't budge. The American had become a danger to Russia, Sheremetev thought as he left the meeting. It was time to consider removing that danger. Besides, without the Zeppi fellow, the Sheremetev clan would have a better chance of getting control of the up-timer knowledge away from the Gorchakov clan.\n**Chapter 37**\n\n**_On the Oka River, between Moscow and Murom_**\n\n**_August 1633_**\n\n\"Hey, Stinky. What do you have there?\"\n\nPavel Mikhailovich didn't much like being called Stinky, since he didn't stink any worse than his brother did. \"I got a pamphlet, Shorty. There was this kid handing them out in Moscow.\"\n\n\"What'd you want a pamphlet for that you can't read?\" Ivan Mikhailovich demanded. He didn't much like being called Shorty, since his brother was only one inch taller than he was.\n\n\"Well, I figured you'd read it to me. Oh, that's right! You can't read either.\" Pavel Mikhailovich made a rude gesture at his brother, then continued. \"The kid stuck it in my hand. I wasn't going to stop in the middle of a Moscow street and explain to him that I couldn't read. So I stuck it in my pocket and forgot about it.\"\n\nPockets, not entirely by chance, had become the mark of a well-dressed man\u2014to the extent that someone had suggested a law forbidding them to peasants and _Streltzi._ The notion hadn't gotten very far, but just the fact that it had been broached was enough to make pockets a fad.\n\n\"Fine, then. How's the engine doing?\" In theory, Ivan, being three years older, was the captain and Pavel was the engineer. In fact, they switched off and both turned their hands to whatever needed doing on the Gorchakov Steam Barge One. It was the only steam barge in Russia and it was brand new. The barge was thirty feet long and twelve feet wide. The front twenty feet had boxes and barrels like any barge on the Moskva river might. But the back ten feet were different. They contained a Frankenstein monster of an engine that James Watt wouldn't have recognized in his worst nightmare. The engine started with a big iron pot, the boiler, which was connected to a big wooden tub by a copper pipe. More copper pipes led to two wooden cylinders, each about six feet long, held together by what a wine merchant would call an excess of barrel hoops.\n\nThough you couldn't see it from the outside, the inside of each cylinder had a piston a bit over a foot across. From the piston, a piston rod extended out of the cylinder and attached to a connecting rod, which attached to a flywheel, which was connected by way of a belt drive and an assortment of other wheels and belts to a rod on the end of which was a propeller. The power was controlled by a valve that restricted the flow of steam to the cylinders, and the direction of rotation by a lever that added a reversing gear.\n\n\"Well enough,\" Pavel said. \"It's leaking a bit more than I like out of cylinder two. When we get to Murom, we should pull the cylinder head and check the greasing. But it should get us there.\"\n\nIvan nodded. They had to do that every so often to one of the cylinders or the other. The inside of the cylinders were coated with lard, the steam melted the lard, and the piston shoved it to the ends of the cylinders.\n\nThen he turned and went forward again.\n\n* * *\n\nStruck with an idea how he might twit his younger brother, when Ivan got to the middle of the barge he asked loudly, \"Say, can anyone read? My brother can't and he got given a pamphlet in Moscow.\" The front half of the barge was stacked with boxes and barrels of goods from Moscow and the Gorchakov Dacha, on which sat half-a-dozen passengers, all of it, and them probably, headed for the Gorchakov family estate at Murom.\n\nThere was a general shaking of heads. The passengers were mostly _Streltzi_ on this run, which varied a lot. But there were generally better odds of finding a literate person on the barge than most places. The barge made a local, then an express, run in both directions. This was the express run from Moscow to Murom, a bit under four hundred miles by river. They would next hit land in four days or so. For safety's sake, they threw out an anchor and stayed in the middle of the river at night.\n\nOne woman asked, \"What have you got?\"\n\n\"Just a pamphlet some kid gave my brother in Moscow,\" Ivan answered.\n\n\"Sorry I can't help.\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter. We're sure to find someone in Murom who can read it to us. Why are you going to Murom?\"\n\n\"I've got a cousin there. Maybe I can get work, what with all the new business Princess Natalia is promoting.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe other passengers had similar stories. Looking for work, looking for opportunity. Bright people, hopeful people, but not literate people. So they wouldn't find out what the Flying Squirrel had to say till they got to Murom.\n\nMeanwhile, they cooked their meals over the boiler fire and had a generally good four-day vacation, talking about the goings on in the wider world.\n\n\"What's the Dacha like?\" the woman who had a cousin, second cousin actually, in Murom, asked the first night.\n\n\"Confusing.\" Pavel laughed. \"I don't have any idea what they are talking about most of the time.\"\n\n\"So how did you get the job?\" asked a big man who was going to Murom in hopes of work as a blacksmith or maybe a foundry man. Not belligerently, just with the assurance that comes with being the biggest man around most of the time.\n\n\"Because we are very good boatmen,\" Ivan said, with a touch of belligerence in his tone. This was their barge, after all.\n\nThe big man waved off any offense. \"I didn't mean that. I don't doubt your skill, but I heard that those folks at the Dacha are dead set on reading and writing and figuring. I heard even the servants are learning to read at that Dacha place.\"\n\n\"That's true enough,\" Pavel agreed after swallowing his mouthful. \"But the princess said they'd never find enough river men to handle steam barges if they insisted that they all be able to read.\"\n\n\"So they plan to make more of these?\"\n\n\"They're already making them at Murom,\" Ivan confirmed. \"We got the first one because we're the best boatmen out of Murom and even the princess had heard about us.\"\n\n\"We're part of a test,\" Pavel explained. \"Us and the steam engine. We were shown how to operate the steam engine and sent out with it to see how it worked. Every time we go by the Dacha they ask us about what has gone wrong and how we fixed it. At first it was really bad, but we got to know the engine pretty quick and we have fewer breakdowns every trip.\"\n\n* * *\n\nNot no breakdowns as it turned out. That trip, on the second day, they had a pipe come loose from the number two cylinder and they had to repair it as best they could with rags and pig fat and continue on. It was during the pig fat repairs that Pavel explained that what they had was a low-pressure steam engine. \"See,\" he explained amiably, \"the piston is so big so that the pressure on any little bit of it can be less and you still get the same total power.\"\n**Chapter 38**\n\n**_Grantville_**\n\n**_September 1633_**\n\n\"So what else is on the list of impossible demands this week?\" Brandy asked.\n\n\"Bernie, or rather 'one of the brain cases,' wants a computer. The patriarch wants proof of the dangers of lead poisoning and an alternative makeup, because certain women in Moscow are having fits. Also, tons of antibiotics. Apparently they are having trouble with the instructions already sent.\"\n\n\"That's not surprising. Cloramphenicol is doable, but not easy.\" Brandy said.\n\nVladimir nodded. \"I have one here from the Polish Section demanding a generator 'if such things really exist.' We sent one to Bernie a while back; that must be where they heard about it.\"\n\n\"According to Natasha, they have a group at the Dacha who are hand-making generators and batteries. Why doesn't the Polish Section get one from them?\"\n\n\"Ah, that explains it.\" Vladimir grinned. \"The Polish Section wants a generator all right, but they don't want to go through the Grantville Section or the Dacha to get it. Russian politics. I'll direct them to the Dacha. Here's one . . . they want the precise location of all gold mines in Russia. I already told them that the best we've found is general areas. So, make unreasonable demands of me, Brandy. I'm getting used to it.\"\n\n\"Hmmm.\" Brandy considered. \"Hmmm. No one has ever suggested that to me before, I don't think. I'll hold the unreasonable demand for now and use it when it's really inconvenient. For now, how about a reasonable demand? Let's take off early? I want you to tell me about Moscow.\"\n\nVladimir shrugged. \"Why not? The demands will still be here tomorrow.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIt was three nights after the car had left for Russia that Vladimir made up his mind. He would ask for permission to marry the girl from the future. He pulled out a pen and began the two letters. One to Natasha informing her that he would be seeking Brandy's hand and asking for her help in persuading the czar. One to the czar asking his permission to marry a foreigner. He would wait to ask Brandy until he had permission because he didn't know what he would do if the permission was not forthcoming.\n\nHaving written those letters, Vladimir began to write this week's report to the embassy bureau, attention Grantville Section. First he wrote about Hans Richter and the political implications that were already bouncing around central Germany. That was an event that would change the politics of Europe. He included some of the newspaper coverage and turned to the next item.\n\n_The steam engines are on order. The younger Herr Schmidt may prove even more suited to the new future that sits before us all than his father. I include fairly extensive notes on the tour of his plant. Herr Adolph Schmidt charged two thousand American dollars for that tour. He said he understands that he can't prevent others from profiting from his work, but he can at least get them to pay for the privilege if he doesn't charge too much. It would have cost more to steal the information, so I guess in this case he didn't charge too much. I think we got our money's worth, anyway._\n\n_In spite of your efforts in Murom, I don't think the infrastructure is in place to support a steam engine factory in Russia like the one in Magdeburg. Herr Schmidt's factory doesn't exist on its own, but is a part of an industrial community. Herr Schmidt gets parts from three different foundries and is looking for more. The machines he uses to finish those parts were produced by other suppliers, mostly from near Grantville. But he is looking into having a tube bender made in Magdeburg. I mention this to emphasize again that what we need more than a steam engine shop or a gun shop\u2014or any other shop\u2014is that community of industry. A place where the parts for machines may be bought and new machines built, not out of raw iron ore but out of parts that are already on a shelf in another shop._\n\n_We do need steam engines, yes. Besides the tour and the order for two twelve- and four twenty-horsepower steam engines and the accompanying boilers and condensers, I have included the booklet that Schmidt Steam sells with instructions on how to make the less efficient, but easier to produce, low-pressure steam engines, which it seems every other blacksmith or carpenter in Germany is building. When combined with my notes on the tour it should give our craftsmen a better steam engine._\n\n_Rudlinus Nussbaum, who took me through the factory, explained it this way. There are two extreme forms of steam engine. The ones like they make in the factory are high-pressure steam engines that use what he calls super-heated steam to produce pressures of hundreds of pounds per square inch. That's still lower than the pressures and heat in an internal combustion engine, but it's very hot and very high pressure. Rudy, as he asked that I call him, said that a piston escaping from a high-pressure steam engine would go right through me and the door behind me. He then assured me that I was perfectly safe. Grinning like an idiot the whole time._\n\n_In any case, high-pressure steam engines require good quality steel and fairly tight tolerances. We have craftsmen that could handle the tolerances, but it would take a long time to build each cylinder._\n\n_However, there are also the low-pressure steam engines I sent you the booklet about. In general, a low-pressure steam engine uses steam that is not that much above boiling and works at pressures as low as a few pounds per square inch. Rudy said, \"To get useful work out of that weak a head of steam, they use large cylinders and large pistons. A piston head with a diameter of one foot has a surface of 113 square inches. At a steam pressure of ten pounds per square inch, that comes to a stroke force of 1130 pounds or half a ton. Say half of that is lost to friction and other factors . . . that's still 565 pounds of work. Just over a horsepower, assuming a foot-long cylinder and a cycle time of a couple of seconds. Actually, with a one-foot diameter, four-foot cylinder and a decent flywheel, at ten psi you should get about two and half horse power once it gets going.\"_\n\n_I take Rudy at his word and I believe you should as well. What this means to us is that a wooden cylinder three feet long and a foot across\u2014essentially a barrel with the proper attachments\u2014can provide the work of three or even four steppe ponies. According to the booklet and the experiments they did at the Smith Steam engine factory: \"The low-pressure steam engine can be made mostly of wood and leather with iron reinforcements.\" That is not true, as I understand it, of the boiler and the pipes. For one thing the highest pressure is always in the boiler not the engine, since the engine is releasing that pressure to get work. The best boiler is steel tubing. But making steel tubing would be prohibitively expensive. We will probably be forced to use a steel pot or even an iron pot and copper tubing to take the steam from the pot to the engine._\n**Chapter 39**\n\n**_October 1633_**\n\n\"What's taking so long with the car?\" Bernie asked. \"We asked for it six months ago.\"\n\nAnya hid a grimace. Bernie was increasingly upset about the delay in sending the car.\n\n\"According to his last letter, Vladimir says that he's trying to find an up-timer to come with it,\" Natasha said. \"There are also other requests he has to deal with. To use the up-timerism, he wrote he has more on his plate than just your car. The politics of the CPE are increasingly fractious. The embassy bureau is concerned that the League of Ostend will defeat the CPE and relieve the pressure that is the only thing keeping Poland from invading us. So, more of his time and energy is being used acquiring political information, and he can't take the time to find shipping for your car, Bernie.\"\n\n\"I know that, but we need that engine as an example. The steam engine project is hitting snags all over the place. And I'm pretty sure it's the tolerances.\"\n\n\"Tolerances?\"\n\n\"How tightly the piston sits in the cylinder,\" Bernie explained, which wasn't a particularly good explanation, as far as Anya was concerned.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Oh, man.\" Bernie sounded worried. \"Why him?\"\n\nNatasha looked up from her latest letter from Brandy Bates and watched Bernie for a moment. His beard had grown in rather nicely, she thought. His clothing, though, was a disaster, and worse, he was influencing the staff at the Dacha and even people in Moscow.\n\n\"Why who?\"\n\n\"Cass Lowry.\" Bernie waved the letter at her. \"He used to be a friend of mine when we played football together. I thought he was so cool\u2014and he is clever. He was always coming up with stunts to pull. The thing is . . .\" Bernie paused and looked at Natasha, then went on. \"He always had . . . I guess you'd call it a sense of entitlement. His stunts usually had a nasty edge to them, getting back at someone who had dissed him. Ah . . . shown a lack of respect for him. He was going to go to college on a football scholarship. Studying was a waste of time.\n\n\"I was the same way, I guess. Everything that happened to us was someone else's fault. I was right with him all through high school. Then, after his football scholarship fell through, Cass blamed me for keeping him from studying.\" Bernie looked over at Natasha and gave a shrug. \"There may have been some truth to it but other guys on the team did study and went on to college. Somewhere in there, I got over myself and started to grow up. But from the letter, it doesn't sound like Cass ever did. Now he's blaming everything on the down-timers and Mike Stearns.\" Bernie waved the letter. \"That's what this letter comes down to. I hope no one ever reads this, Natasha. Because it's pretty rude.\"\n\nNatasha knew that quite well. It took some effort to control her expression. Cass Lowry's comments about \"krauts,\" \"russkies\" and \"I guess you're living in the armpit of the universe\" had not gone unnoticed. Not in the least. \"Brandy says it is because he was the only person who knew cars well enough who was willing to make the trip. Vladimir wanted, very much, to have someone who knew cars travel with your 'Precious.'\"\n\n\"My what?\"\n\nNatasha looked at Brandy's letter again. \"Brandy says 'tell Bernie that Cass is traveling with Precious because Cass is the only guy we could find who wasn't doing something else.'\"\n\nBernie's face was a study. Part outrage, part pout. \"The car is not named Precious. Are you sure she didn't say 'your precious car' or something?\"\n\nNatasha shook her head. \"No. It even has the capital P. I assumed it was the name for it. At any rate, your Cass will be arriving in a month or so. We should probably arrange for you to meet him. He, according to Brandy, wants to visit us for a while. And you never know, he might help.\"\n\nBernie slumped into a chair. \"I doubt it. Don't get me wrong. Cass is smart, smarter than me, I always thought. It's just . . . I don't know . . . he has a knack for screwing things up. You're probably not going to care for him one little bit. Neither will Boris or Filip.\" Bernie shook his head in disgust. \"Why did Brandy have to send him?\"\n\nBrandy had not sent him, Vladimir had. He had been fully aware of Cass' drawbacks and had stressed the need to put up with them while he was milked for information, especially on weapons and tactics used by the up-timers. \"Mr. Lowry,\" Vladimir had written, \"is not a person we would want in our home. But he does have knowledge that could be useful to Russia. Try to keep anyone from killing him for the insults he will surely give.\" Natasha had wondered if Bernie's view would agree with Vladimir's. While there were subtle differences, for the most part it did.\n**Chapter 40**\n\n**_On the road to the Swedish Border_**\n\n**_November 1633_**\n\nBernie shivered. Theatrically, Natasha thought. She exchanged an amused glance with Anya. Anya rolled her eyes and Natasha had to struggle not to giggle.\n\nOblivious to the byplay, Bernie went on, \"Well, at least it's not a horse. It may be colder than a witch's . . . ah, never mind. It may be really cold, but at least we aren't riding horses.\"\n\n\"Indeed, we aren't.\" Natasha smiled. \"And you must admit that it's a very nice sleigh, Bernie, very nice.\"\n\nAnd it was, in fact, a very nice sleigh. It had special springs for the skis. Outside it was bitterly cold and the snow was still pretty deep, but the streamlined sleigh had double-walled construction and a lacquer polish job that acted as sealant, as well as making the whole thing shiny. It was relatively warm inside, even if it did look a bit peculiar. The sleigh needed high road clearance because even the improved roads weren't exactly highways in the up-timer sense of the word. They were reasonably well-graded dirt roads with a bit of crushed rock spread over them. Plus, at the moment, a layer of snow.\n\nOnly a relatively small part of the design for the coach was from up-timer information. More of it came from a Russian coach maker who had joined the team after the czar had seen some up-time car magazines. Czar Mikhail had liked the idea of cars and smooth rides. He'd decided that if he couldn't have an engine, he at least wanted a streamlined design and shock absorbers.\n\nThe coach maker, Ivan Egorovich Shirshov, had taken note of that desire. The czar had seen to that. Ivan Egorovich had arrived at the Dacha with a medium-sized chip on his shoulder over the whole mess. Then he talked to Bernie and found that Bernie agreed with him. But it was no more up to Bernie than it was to him. They had gone over Bernie's car magazines, then over sleigh designs and coach designs, trying to figure out what they could do. Ivan Egorovich now had a permanent dent in his forehead from pounding it against the wall in frustration. And Czar Mikhail had a new coach. So did Bernie.\n\nBernie grabbed the edge of the seat. \"Hang on. We're about to hit another rutted bit. And I still can't figure out why you wanted to come on this trip, ladies. You're probably going to get frostbite on your noses.\"\n\n\"The 'advance team,' as you call it, has made arrangements, Bernie. We will be comfortable. And I like traveling. Vladimir and I did quite a bit of it, you know, back when our father was alive.\"\n\nAunt Sofia grinned widely. \"The weather, it is not so bad.\"\n\nBernie shuddered. If it hadn't been for the long johns, he'd have had frozen b . . . ah . . . parts by now.\n\nThe trip to the Swedish border had several purposes. One was to investigate the road work. Road work had been continuing apace since a few months or so after Bernie's arrival. Since he had worked on the road gangs around Grantville and had a mechanical turn of mind, he had a good knowledge of the horse-drawn grader and other horse-drawn road improvement equipment. The equipment he had helped design for Russia had been used extensively for more than a year now and was showing real effect. The czar's highways mostly went south and east, roughly toward China. One, however, went north and west toward the coast of the Baltic Sea.\n\nThat was the highway they were traveling. It was a fairly slow trip. They stopped occasionally to examine the road work. Most important to Bernie, though, was that the trip's second purpose was to pick up his car. It had been shipped from Grantville by way of the Baltic Sea to the Swedish-owned coast.\n\nRussia had lost this particular bit of land to Sweden a couple of decades before. Thankfully, relations between the two nations had greatly improved in the ensuing years. This was mostly because both Sweden and Russia disliked Poland more than they disliked each other. But, also, Czar Mikhail Fedorovich Romanov was honestly impressed with the charismatic Swedish monarch.\n\nNatasha had decided to join the party and she brought Sofia and Anya, so there were more women than Bernie thought there'd be. The amount of advance planning needed to travel just a couple of days was mind boggling to Bernie. And this trip would take at least a month, new coach or not.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I can't believe it.\" Bernie knew his voice was harsh and his nose bright red from chapping. He was also angry. \"I can't believe it took five freaking weeks to get here and the ship still hasn't made it.\" Which wasn't what he'd started to say but was more politic. He stomped around the room for a bit, working off some excess energy and tying not to say what he wanted to say.\n\n\"Now, Bernie.\" Vladislav Vasl'yevich Vinnikov, Natasha's captain of guards, tried to soothe him. \"It was a long way, a hard trip at this time of year. I would imagine that it was even worse on the sea. Your friend will be here. You must just be patient.\"\n\n\"Why can't we just go to the coast to meet him?\" Bernie asked, in spite of his better judgment. The truth was Bernie was pretty sure he knew why. He wasn't going to be allowed to leave Russia. Not for the foreseeable future, anyway. They had their up-timer and weren't going to chance losing him. That had become obvious once they got to the Russian\/Swedish border and stopped. He threw his hands in the air.\n\nBernie knew Vladislav Vasl'yevich wasn't about to answer his question directly. It wouldn't be the correct thing to do.\n\n\"The villages in the area, Bernie. We should look at the villages. The soil is a bit different, perhaps. You could take notes; it would help with the development of the plows and reapers, I'm sure.\"\n\nBernie brightened a bit, not much. \"Well, it's something to do anyway. Sure, we'll go take a look.\"\n\nNatasha, who had been quiet for a few moments, added, \"As well, Pavel Andreyevich would like you to design your plumbing for his home. He is most interested in it. And you are invited to utilize his sauna, if you wish.\"\n\nBernie grinned. The word Natasha had used was _banya_. The Russian multi-leveled sauna __ was certainly a way to get warm. Overly warm, if the truth were known. Bernie hadn't quite been able to make it to the third level back at the Dacha, not yet. Nor had he quite had the guts to roll around in the snow afterwards, although he had progressed to dumping buckets of not-quite-cold water on himself. The process also involved a massage with leafy twigs that was called _venek_ , that had been sort of a revelation. Bernie didn't know of the reports up-time that _venek_ worked better than Viagra, but if he had he would have agreed with them.\n\n\"Sounds like a plan.\" Bernie sniffed. Cold always made his nose run. \"After four hundred miles in this kind of freaking cold, a sauna sounds really good.\" _And as pissed and, tell the truth, Bernie,_ he thought, _scared as you are. Now is not the time to make an issue of it._\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha smiled as Bernie left the room. \"That might have been more difficult.\"\n\nVladislav Vasl'yevich shook his head. \"He knows. He just doesn't want the confrontation any more than we do. I wonder what delayed the ship.\"\n\nThey had planned not to reach the border till after the car was already there, but didn't want it waiting too long. Natasha had spent a worried week thinking up things to keep Bernie occupied. As yet, Russia had been able to recruit a total of one up-timer. That up-timer was Bernie Zeppi. Cass Lowry was a temporary hire.\n\nCzar Mikhail and Patriarch Filaret were quite insistent that Bernie not leave Russian territory. At the same time, Mikhail Romanov expressed a personal desire that Bernie not be made to feel abused or trapped. Natasha was stuck with the job of keeping Bernie from leaving Russia while keeping him from realizing that he couldn't. A task which, if Vladislav was correct, she had already failed at.\n\nIt was important that Bernie remain willing to stay in Russia. Bernie was in regular correspondence with Brandy Bates and his own family in Grantville. A sudden end to those letters would be reported to the government of the USE, most likely. Russia, decidedly, didn't want to annoy the USE at the moment.\n**Chapter 41**\n\n\"What the hell took so long, Cass?\" Bernie asked.\n\nCass Lowry glared at him from beneath the hood of his camouflage-fabric parka. \"Everything you can think of, dude. Everything. Hail. Freezing rain. A goddamn storm at sea. So don't gripe at me. I got the damn thing here, didn't I? Not to mention the drums. And let me tell you, those were a ring-tailed son of a bitch, they really were. And expensive! You'd never believe what Gorchakov had to pay for those fifty-five gallon drums, not to mention what's in them.\"\n\nBernie decided yelling at Cass wouldn't help, so he grinned. \"You're right. I'm happier than you know to have fifty-five gallons of gas, I promise you. And motor oil. That's a bonus I didn't expect.\"\n\nCass smirked. \"I told Brandy. I told her and that Vladimir the same thing. 'It's not going to do any good if you just send the car,' I said. 'You've got to send some gas and oil.' It cost Vladimir a bundle, Bernie. But he did it. And there's a whole pile of boxes in the wagons, too. Everything anybody could think of to send you is in a box or wrapped up in the trunk of the car. Brandy hit every garage sale and junk sale she could to find stuff to send you. And books\u2014you'll never believe the books. Piles of them.\"\n\n\"Great. We need every one we can find. Come on. Let's go get the introductions over with. Things are kind of formal around here, Cass. You need to watch your step. Just follow my lead and things will probably be okay.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Natalia Petrovna Gorchakov, may I introduce Cass Lowry. Cass, this is Vladimir's sister, Natalia Petrovna. And this is her aunt, Madame Sofia Gorchakov. And this is Anya, our accountant.\"\n\nBernie thought he'd done a credible job on the introduction until Cass opened his big mouth.\n\n\"If you're Vladimir's sister, why isn't your name Natasha? That's what Brandy said, Natasha.\"\n\nBernie sort of kicked Cass in the ankle and made a face at him. \"I'll explain later,\" he murmured. \"Just say hello\u2014and be polite, will you?\"\n\nCass glared a bit, but nodded. \"Ma'am, I'm pleased to meet you. I did bring a load of letters for you. They're from your brother and Brandy. And there are some presents, too. They're in one of the boxes.\"\n\nNatasha nodded graciously. \"My thanks. We appreciate your trouble and invite you to share our hospitality at the Dacha for a while. Vladimir Petrovich was pleased that you accepted his commission.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, I stung him pretty good on the fee.\" Cass snickered.\n\nBernie knew there was going to be trouble sooner or latter. Cass was acting like he was still up-time and still a football star. \"Natalia Petrovna, we will take our leave of you for the moment,\" Bernie said. \"My friend and I need to have a talk. If you will excuse us?\"\n\nNatasha inclined her head. \"Certainly, Bernie. Perhaps we shall see you and Cass at dinner?\" Bernie suppressed a groan. Cass, Natasha, dinner . . . what was wrong with that combination? Bernie didn't want to think about it.\n\n* * *\n\nDinner was tense, to say the least. The Russians were showing restraint and Cass needed to be in restraints. He was behaving like a boor, to the point where Bernie was seriously considering knocking him out. Unfortunately, most of the Russians present understood quite a bit of English. Natasha had an aptitude for language and was getting fairly close to fluency.\n\nTo make things still worse, it turned out that Cass had an aptitude for language also. Bernie hadn't expected that at all. He was certain that if she'd been present, their former Spanish language teacher in high school, Guadelupe DiCastro, would have been struck dumb with astonishment. Bernie had gotten a B-minus in her class but Cass had almost flunked it completely.\n\nCass wasn't actually stupid, though, although he could sure put on a good imitation. When he decided to learn something and applied himself, he could usually manage it pretty well. So, on the long trip here he'd apparently learned some Russian. Not enough to really get by, but enough to be able to insult people in two languages instead of just one.\n\nIt was worse for Anya, Bernie was pretty sure, because this was her first time at the nobility's table. Her friendship with Natasha was still fairly new, after all.\n\n\"Yeah,\" Cass was saying, \"winding up back here before the world got civilized was sort of hard. It was a boon to the here-and-now, but God was playing a nasty trick on us up-timers. Wars all over the damn place, the food sucks, and there's all this religious bullshit, too. Every time you turn around someone is in your face about religion. When the Ring of Fire made it clear that none of your religions had a clue what God had in mind.\"\n\nFather Kiril was having dinner with them. Kiril was a nice guy. Luckily, he spoke almost no English at all so he couldn't follow what Cass was saying,\n\nNatasha could, however. Her face was cold as she regarded Cass. \"Indeed. And you did? Have a clue, I mean. Didn't you say that back up-time you could have avoided all the difficulty by simply moving? Could you not?\"\n\n\"No. The big guy didn't tell us either, but then if he had you would have gotten a ghost town.\"\n\nCass managed to leer and look superior at the same time, and Bernie was more and more sure he was going to have to hit him. The problem was that what Cass was saying was close enough to what a lot of up-timers, and more than a few down-timers, believed to hurt. Certainly if Bernie's family had known the Ring of Fire was coming, they would have gotten his mom out of the Ring. Bernie would probably have opted to stay in the twentieth century, given the choice. He hadn't joined the Peace Corps, had he? It was also true that the presence of the up-timers had turned out to be of considerable benefit to the down-timers, at least the large majority of those affected, one way or the other. Looked at one way it looked like God had drafted the up-timers to rescue the seventeenth century from itself. That the up-timers were God's chosen representatives; whether they wanted to be chosen or not.\n\nThen Cass laughed raucously and snorted beer up his nose.\n\nWhen all the spewing and coughing was finally over, Bernie looked at Cass. He was pretty drunk. \"I think I've had enough, Cass. I'm going to crash. You ready?\"\n\nCass was a little bleary from the vodka he had consumed, but wasn't ready for sleep, apparently. \"No, dude. I don't think so. You go on. I'll just keep this lady company.\" He was eyeballing Anya in a way that Bernie didn't like at all.\n\nNatasha's already cold face froze. Anya looked scared. Bernie could see it happening.\n\n\"I, myself,\" Natasha said, \"am quite tired. You gentlemen feel free to enjoy . . . whatever it is that you enjoy. Until the morning, then. Come along, Anya, Aunt Sofia.\" Natasha rose and swept from the room, casting a telling glance over her shoulder. Aunt Sofia's glance was even more telling.\n\nBernie got the message. Cass had to learn to behave properly.\n\n* * *\n\n\"That one will get himself killed,\" Vladislav Vasl'yevich murmured. \"Soon, I expect.\"\n\n\"Not by us, though, and preferably not in Russia. Let some other nation do the world the service.\" Natasha agreed with his assessment. Cass Lowry was a barbarian. \"I know he's already said things that would be reason for a duel. Certainly most would already have been punished for those remarks. But the czar will want to meet him, just as he met Bernie, and Russia needs what he knows. Vladislav Vasl'yevich, we need to avoid any incident. You'll have to restrain yourself and your men.\"\n\n\"At least Bernie did not intentionally insult. This one, though . . .\" Vladislav shook his head. \"He is a different type of man. He thinks himself a boyar's son, protected by his father's position. He seems to think that everyone in Russia is a peasant.\"\n\n* * *\n\nCass was a bit drunk. Not much, just enough to take the edge off. He was wondering what the fuck was Bernie's problem. After all, Bernie got the fancy job here in Russia, with all the servants and lots of money. What did Bernie have to complain about? Had the idiot gone native? Could have happened, he figured. Bernie had been all alone with a bunch of down-time barbs for over a frigging year. \"What is your problem, man? They're just down-timers. They need us, we don't need them. Ain't you figured that out yet? Hell, even up-time kids are getting rich.\"\n\n\"So what are you doing here, Cass? Since you're so rich, I mean?\"\n\nCass flushed. \"Cheap shot, man. The breaks haven't been going my way. It's Stearns' fault. Treating the down-timers like they're real Americans and selling us out to the Swedes like he done.\"\n\n\"Cass, we're not in high school anymore.\" Bernie stared at him intently. \"Some breaks are coming your way, sure enough. Broken arms, broken legs and a busted head. One of the ladies you were hitting on is a frigging _knyazhna_ , Cass. That's Russian for princess. Don't think for a minute that her guards won't cut off your dick and feed it and the rest of you to the pigs.\"\n\n\"What the hell is your problem, Bernie boy? Afraid of the competition?\" Cass pulled his new Peacemaker and pointed it casually in Bernie's direction. He liked the gun and how it made him feel strong and dangerous. It was modeled loosely on the Colt Peacemaker but made in a down-time gun shop. \"Anyone wants to cut me, they had better bring a whole lot more firepower than these candy-asses have.\"\n\nBernie froze.\n\nAt first Cass thought he had made his point, but Bernie wasn't really looking scared. Mostly he was looking pissed off.\n\nIt occurred to Cass that pointing a loaded gun at Bernie might be pushing it a bit. He really hadn't meant to piss Bernie off, not till he got the lay of the land, anyway. Especially, he hadn't meant to let Bernie-boy know that he was competition.\n\n\"Hey man, it's no big deal,\" he said, putting away the gun. \"If you got dibs on her, I'll back off.\"\n\nCass knew he was smarter than Bernie. He hadn't done well in school, but that was because school just bored him. Besides, he was a football star. He didn't need to bust his hump in English class. He knew he could pick up what Bernie was doing pretty quick. He could probably push Bernie out, if he wanted to. But he wasn't going to put up with much crap from the dumb-ass down-timers. Not him. Not ever.\n**Chapter 42**\n\nCass winced at the bright sunshine when he walked out the door three mornings later. \"Oh, man, that hurts.\"\n\n\"Think you might want to be a little more careful with the booze?\" Bernie's smirk was irritating. \"Sun shining off snow can really dazzle you, but the biggest part of your problem is your hangover. Three days and three hangovers. No wonder it hurts.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Cass muttered. Drinking was about the only thing he was enjoying. Well, that and the girls. Every place they stayed had servant girls. Even staying away from Bernie's boss\u2014and wasn't it a laugh that a girl was the boss in Russia\u2014wasn't hard, not when you had all those other girls around.\n\nBernie put on his heavy coat. \"You ready? Let's get a move on. This trip is taking forever. I wish the car was running, I really do. Steering and braking with no power while being towed behind a team of horses is a real pain.\"\n\n\"What did you expect? The thing sat on blocks for years, man.\" Cass snorted. \"Let's go. Get to this Dacha place and see if you can get it running.\"\n\nHours in the carriage with only a couple of troops who didn't speak English was a real bore. But Cass didn't want to ride on one of the carts out in the open and especially didn't want to be on horseback. Too cold for that, by half. It was the usual order today. Out ahead of everyone, a double column of ten guards on horseback spread out. Then came the rolling stock. First came the fancy-ass sleigh that the women were in. Cass hated to admit it, but it was actually kind of neat. Boxy, but still sort of streamlined and buffed to a high gloss. Then Bernie was freezing his ass off in that old junker of his. Cass was behind Bernie's car in his carriage. Then all the carts with all the stuff the Gorchakov dude had sent. At the end of the line there were six more guards. Plus guards in some of the rolling stock.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie patted the dash. \"Oh, yeah. Once I get it running it will be able to do thirty miles an hour at least. Even on these roads and pulling a bunch of stuff.\"\n\nVladislav Vasl'yevich was riding beside Bernie's car just then. Partly because he was actually interested in how it worked and could see lots of military applications for these motorized vehicles. Mostly, though, over the course of a day's travel, he would spend time all along the column. He checked everything, several times a day, to make sure everything was working and looked for trouble before it happened.\n\nVladislav had seen and reported on hundreds of military applications in the time that Bernie had been at the Dacha. He hadn't exactly been ignored. The czar now had a .30-06. It was handmade with gold engraving, but there was a very limited supply of bullets. There were people making new guns, flintlocks, but only in small numbers, as experiments. There were the war games in the Kremlin. But in Vladislav's opinion the military had been slow to consider the potential usefulness of the up-timers' innovations in weapons and tactics.\n\n\"I wouldn't mind seeing that . . .\" Vladislav stopped at the shout from the front of the column and shots ringing out. \"Bandits! To the _knyazhna_!\" He looked around to assess the situation.\n\nThe road here curved from southeast to east. The bandits had either been spotted by the guards out in front or had sortied too early. Probably spotted\u2014that shout had been Petr Kadian's. It was a large party, it must be. This many trained solders wouldn't be easy to overcome. From the noise, there were probably around thirty or forty bandits. Most were hitting the front of the column, and the outriders on the north side, which was the inside of the curve. That meant that Vladislav's men were more spread out than the bandits were and the bandits could react a little faster. Vladislav noted in passing that Bernie was trying to get his .30-06 out of the back seat of the car. That could help, depending on how Bernie held up in combat.\n\nSurprisingly, the other outlander, Cass, was out of his carriage and running toward Bernie's car. \"Get down!\" Vladislav shouted. \"Get down before you get shot!\"\n\nWhat was the man doing? Vladislav wondered. He was playing with the back of Bernie's car. The back of the car opened like a great mouth, hiding Cass from Vladislav's view.\n\nThere hadn't been bandits in this area for years. It was too well patrolled. Not out of fear of bandits, but to provide warning of an attack by Poland. Vladislav waved to the embassy bureau troops who were bringing up the rear. \"To the _knyazhna_! Don't worry about the carts, protect Natalia Petrovna and Bernie!\" They could probably replace the stuff in the carts if they had to, but they had to protect the princess and Bernie. Vladislav shot one of the bandits and dropped the pistol. He drew the second. He always carried one in each boot and two in his belt.\n\n\" _Yeeeehaaaw!_ \"\n\nVladislav looked around, startled by the scream. Cass had reappeared from the back of Bernie's car and was carrying a long gun of some sort. He was running at the woods on the north side of the road, screaming like a banshee. _Clickety boom_ , came the noise. And again. _Clicktey boom_. _Clicktey boom_. Two bandits were down, one with most of his head blown away. Vladislav watched as Cass cut to the right. _Clickety boom_. Cut left. _Clickety boom_. Cass ran in some sort of wild pattern that the attackers couldn't follow. Neither could Vladislav.\n\n_Crack_. A different noise sounded. One of the bandits fell from a horse. Since most of the bandits had been on foot, Vladislav figured he was probably their leader. They should have been paying attention to Bernie instead of Cass, who stood behind his car taking well-aimed shots at the attackers. He was propped up on the front of it, rather. Vladislav could see his head and shoulders. The bandits would be lucky to see his head, or the .30-06 that was killing them. It would take a special miracle to actually hit a target that small.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie had frozen for a moment, when the attack began, immobilized by another flashback to the battle of the Crapper. But as he usually did, he managed to shake it off quickly. Store it away, rather; he never did really shake off those memories.\n\nA familiar detachment came over him. He reached over the back seat, got his rifle, opened the glove compartment and took out a box of ammo. Then he got out of the car and took position using the hood as a firing stand.\n\nImmediately, he spotted a man on horseback and shot him out of the saddle. Then he looked for Cass. The idiot had managed to take out at least two attackers because they'd been completely caught off guard by his broken field charge and weren't accustomed to the rate of fire of an up-time pump-action shotgun. But they were fighting men and they were all around him. Bernie could see a bandit already taking aim at Cass from the side.\n\nBernie took him down. One shot. All he needed. He wasn't in the league of someone like Julie Sims when it came to sheer marksmanship but he was very steady in a fight. At this close range and with a modern rifle, that was plenty good enough.\n\nLowry gunned down another bandit at point blank range. But for the first time one of his opponents fired back before he fell. He missed because Lowry's rush unsettled him, but they wouldn't all miss.\n\nThere was another bandit just beyond Cass, aiming at him. Bernie took him down. A bandit next to him. He went down too.\n\nAnother flashback paralyzed Bernie for an instant. Furiously, he drove it under. But he'd been out of it long enough for Cass to shoot down another bandit\u2014and three bandits to fire at him.\n\nBlind luck\u2014Cass lost his footing and fell. The bullets passed harmlessly over him. He hadn't done that intentionally, though. In fact, it was obvious he hadn't even seen the three men to his left.\n\nBernie shot one of them. The other two immediately ducked for cover. Bernie fired two more shots to keep them down, giving Lowry a chance to get away. Then he started reloading the rifle.\n\n* * *\n\nVladislav looked around again. The situation wasn't as bad as it had at first appeared. The attackers had been spotted before most of the column was in the trap. Bernie had apparently gotten their leader, who'd been trying to shift his troops. And Cass, the madman, had spread panic in their ranks\u2014which was made all the worse by Bernie's deadly covering fire.\n\nMeanwhile, Vladislav's men were pushing against their northwestern flank and pinning most of them away from the body of the column. Vladislav wanted to charge the bandits; to use the loss of their leader and the panic. A charge now, even with the few men he had, would break them and send them running. If these were all there were. But, what if there was another group? His job was to protect the _knyazhna_ and Bernie, not to leave them unprotected while he went on a boar hunt.\n\nThe American madman was now out of position. Hopefully, he was out of ammunition as well and would choose to stay down. Cass was well into the trees. Vladislav knew he was going to lose men he couldn't afford if he rescued the maniac. Yet keeping the up-timers alive was vital. While he was considering his options, there was another new sound.\n\nBernie was firing again, having apparently reloaded. It was a heavy covering fire, not aimed at anyone in particular\u2014the bandits in that area were all cowering from him now\u2014but just intended to protect Lowry.\n\nThat should do, Vladimir thought. And now he could see that the bandits were falling back.\n\n\"Hold!\" Vladislav shouted. \"Don't chase them. Hold your positions.\" Vladislav hated to do it, but their job was to protect, not chase. \"Back!\" he shouted. \"Back!\"\n\n* * *\n\nLying under some bushes, Cass let the adrenaline leak away from his system. He'd been an avid hunter since he was ten and a halfback all though high school. Since the Ring of Fire, he had hunted wild boar a lot. Moving fast, moving through woods, and shooting were all things he did quite well. Being shot at in return was a lot less fun.\n\nHe reloaded the shotgun, as much for something to do with his hands as anything else. His hands were shaking a bit.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie's marksmanship had been too good. The man whom Vladimir thought was the commander of the bandits couldn't be questioned because he was dead. Bernie's shot had gone into his chest just above the chest bone, shredding the aorta and cutting the spine\u2014as deadly a shot as could be made. He must have been killed almost instantly.\n\nThe attackers who had been captured were run-of-the-mill bandits, collected for this. They knew very little. Just that they had been hired and paid unusually well to attack this particular group. They were to kill everyone, take as much as they could carry and burn the rest. His equipage and clothing suggested that the commander might be Polish, but anyone could have hired him. The troops were spending quite a bit of time talking about Cass' \"broken-field running,\" as Bernie called it. It made up some for the things he had been saying since he arrived. If he could learn manners, he could be an asset.\n\n\"Vas'ka Kadnitsa will probably recover.\" Bernie washed his hands. \"But I wish we had a real doctor.\" He didn't specify what he meant by a real doctor. Another example of Bernie learning manners. By now, even the doctors at the Dacha acknowledged that they needed to go study with the up-timer doctors in Grantville. Bernie knew it, Natasha knew it, Vladislav knew it. There was no reason to harp on it.\n\n\"I have sent a man to the nearest village to report and bring more troops,\" Vladislav reported. \"About all we know is that it wasn't a random attack. It could have been the Poles trying to deny us access to up-timer knowledge. That will be what most people will assume. On the other hand, it could well have been a faction in the court, perhaps someone who opposes the income tax or the constitution.\"\n\nVladislav paused a moment, then his curiosity overcame him. \"Bernie, what was that long gun Cass used?\"\n\n\"A pump-action shotgun.\" Bernie grinned, albeit mirthlessly. As though he knew that more information would be requested, he continued. \"It's a smooth bore weapon that can fire a solid shot or a bunch of smaller pellets every time it's fired. Cass was apparently using buckshot. It spreads, so you don't need to be all that accurate and is heavy enough to take a man down at close range.\"\n\nA scout rode up. He and Vladislav conferred for a moment. \"We will camp a mile or so up the road. There is a good spot that can be made quite defensible. I don't want to do any more traveling than we have to, not before we are reinforced.\"\n\nBernie and Natasha nodded. He was the captain and knew what he was doing.\n**Chapter 43**\n\nDinner had been served outside and Natasha, Anya and Sofia had gone to their tent. Cass Lowry remained at the table, drinking vodka. The American had been drinking all afternoon. Vladislav kept a close eye on him. Lowry was a dangerous man\u2014savage in a fight, and reckless and careless even when sober. He was also apparently a drunkard, judging from the relentless way he'd been working on the vodka.\n\nIt was a volatile combination. The camp was defensible, which left the _nyekulturny_ outlander as Vladislav's major worry. Lowry hadn't let loose of the shotgun all day and had been passing out insults ever since the battle. After-combat jitters, perhaps. Trying to convince everyone, especially himself, that he wasn't afraid. Vladislav had seen the reaction before. Then Cass had gotten quiet. Vladislav expected trouble. Soon.\n\nThe madman stood up and began to walk toward Natasha's tent. What were his exact intentions? He was probably too drunk to know himself, beyond a raw desire to enter a tent that held two very attractive young women.\n\nBernie stepped in front of him and said something. Vladislav didn't quite understand the words he spoke, since his English was still poor. But it was obvious he was trying to deflect his fellow American.\n\nLowry shoved Bernie away and said something Vladislav also didn't understand. It was obviously rude; viciously so, Vladislav thought.\n\nMore so than Bernie had expected. That was also obvious. Bernie had the disadvantage of being a sane and civilized man dealing with someone beyond those boundaries. The uncultured outlander's shove had pushed him back and his foot slipped on some rocks.\n\nVladislav stepped in. The shotgun had to go. He grabbed it from Cass and tossed it to one of his men, keeping the barrel pointed to the sky. Fighting man or not, valuable outlander or not, this one needed a lesson in manners. He hit Cass in the gut. Hard. Then in the face.\n\nVladislav had been restraining both himself and his men with some difficulty. He had orders to treat the new American carefully. He actually did respect the courage of the man in combat, though no more than he respected Bernie's cool-headed shooting or his own men's courage and discipline. But now that Lowry was posing a clear threat to the _knyazhna_ , he had crossed the lines.\n\nLowry had gone down at the second blow but he was getting back up. He went for the pistol holstered at his side and Vladislav kicked him in the head. The American boor went down again.\n\n\"I've been protecting _Knyazhna_ Natasha since she was a child, little man.\" The outlander might not have been little physically, but he had a little soul. \"I can live with your uncultured ways if I have to . . .\"\n\nVladislav pulled Cass up from the ground, took the pistol out of the holster and set it on the table. Behind him, he heard Bernie talking to the guards. \"Hey, guys, I can wait my turn, but at least let me watch.\"\n\nHis Russian had gotten quite good, idiomatic and almost fluent. Vladislav chuckled. Some of the guards must have thought Bernie was coming to the outlander's defense.\n\nStill holding Cass by his collar, Vladislav said, \"I can put up with your arrogance but you won't lay a hand on her. Not if you want to keep that hand.\" Vladislav hit him again.\n\nCass flew into the table and made quite a racket going down this time. Then Natasha appeared.\n\n\"What are you doing, Vladislav?\" The noise had brought her from the tent. She was shouting. \"And why are your men holding Bernie? Neither of these men is to be harmed. You know that. Let them go.\"\n\nVladislav let go of the outlander, who promptly fell on the ground, holding his guts, trying not to heave. The other guards let Bernie pass.\n\nBernie took a few steps and bowed graciously to Vladislav. \"I didn't really mind waiting, Vladislav Vasl'yevich, but you might have left a bit more for me. Don't worry about it, Natasha. Every man here has wanted to give Cass a lesson in manners from the moment he arrived. He's earned this, in more ways than you know.\"\n\nBernie picked Cass up and leaned him against the handy cart, propping him carefully. Cass' knees buckled and he went down again. \"I do think you could have left me some, Vladislav. Considering it was me he pushed.\"\n\n\"I apologize, Bernie Janovich.\" Vladislav bowed precisely. \"But there was very little to it. I thought there would be more. Perhaps tomorrow.\" Cass groaned.\n\nNatasha sniffed loudly and retreated to her tent. \"Men!\" She stopped at the entrance. \"It has been a busy time and I do not read well in a sleigh. I have not had time to read any but the most essential messages from Grantville. We finally have an evening not filled with politics and you children decide to throw a brawl. Keep the noise down. I don't wish to be disturbed again tonight.\"\n\nFifteen minutes later Bernie and Vladislav had arranged the semiconscious Cass on one of the carts. They were about to walk back to the fire when Natasha came storming out of the tent again. There was a letter in her hand.\n\n\"You fool!\" she shouted at Cass. \"Why didn't you tell me that my brother wishes to marry Brandy Bates?\" Then she hit him.\n\n\"Darn it!\" Bernie complained, laughing. \"I never get a turn.\"\n\n* * *\n\nOf that charge, at least, Cass was innocent. He hadn't known. He had left Grantville before Vladimir had sent the letter and it had caught up en route.\n**Chapter 44**\n\n**_December 1633_**\n\n\"Vladimir sent a whole packet of letters with your car, Bernie, and even more of them with Cass,\" Natasha said. \"There's more about the steam engines.\" She handed Filip the booklet, since he spoke better German than Bernie.\n\nFilip started reading the booklet and less than a page in began to ask Bernie to define some of the terms. They went over the directions and the calculations in the booklet and called in a few more of their experts, and started working up a modified design for the steam barge engines. These new ones would have slightly tighter tolerances, more wood, less leather and be more powerful for their size. They would still, in essence, be low-pressure steam engines, but with this new information they felt they could push the envelope a little bit.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What are we going to do about Cass?\" Natasha asked Bernie two days after that meeting. \"He managed, just barely, to be polite to the czar. Other than that, he has offended everyone who has met him.\"\n\nBernie grinned. \"Give him to the military. Specifically to the _Streltzi_ bureau.\" The Russia military was a weird mix of feudal duty and bureaucratic confusion. The bureaucratic nobility included the officers in time of war. They were the officer corps and the cavalry. The _Streltzi_ were the infantry in time of war and the city guards in time of peace. One of the things that the _Streltzi_ had picked up from Bernie was fingerprinting. By now most of the criminals in Moscow had had their fingerprints taken or paid considerable bribes to avoid it. The _Streltzi_ hadn't picked up on the notion of civil rights, though Bernie had offered it up. In the last few years, mercenary companies hired from the west had been added to the mix. The mercenaries who had a different way of fighting weren't mixing in too well. \"We get more requests from them than anyone else. Besides, it might do Cass some good to be surrounded by cops for a while.\"\n\nNatasha was nodding. Bernie had been urgently called to various military bureaus over the last few months. Especially the _Streltzi_ bureaus. The _Streltzi_ preferred to fight behind walls, city walls. When they could not fight defensively behind the walls of a city they wanted to fight behind walking walls. The \"stand and take it\" philosophy of the western mercenary infantry was not in their traditions. They had no objection to dishing it out and did not lack courage, but standing in the open and taking it just seemed stupid. \"Do you think it will work?\"\n\nBernie sighed \"Maybe, but I doubt it. But worst case, it gets him out of our hair and gets the military bureaus off my back.\"\n\n\"So the Gun Shop will have their own up-timer.\" Natasha laughed out loud. \"Who knows? Maybe General Shein can handle him.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"I don't care if he wants to fuck the czarina,\" Mikhail Borisovich Shein said. \"We have our own up-timer now, and he's one who can fight.\"\n\nHis aide took it in stride. General Shein was a volatile man by nature. The calculation hidden by the volatility was harder to see; most people never did. \"What should we do with him, sir?\"\n\n\"We do what Princess Natalia suggested. Assign him to the Gun Shop with Korisov.\" The general snorted. \"And keep him away from anyone important. Question him extensively, but not harshly. If that doesn't work, we can use stronger measures. From what I understand, the main reason we got him is that he managed to miss out on, or fail at, the opportunities in Grantville. No one will miss him much.\"\n\nThe aide made a note and went on to the next item on the agenda. \"The _Streltzi_ are arguing with the outlander solders about their walking walls again.\" The aide was a bureaucratic noble and therefore an officer in the Russian army. He didn't think all that well of the foreign mercenary companies or the _Streltzi_ \u2014who, when not called to active service, made up the merchant class in Russia.\n\nThe general gave him a cold look. Mikhail Borisovich Shein had commanded a force made up mostly of _Streltzi_ at Smolensk during the last war with Poland. They had held out for twenty months against a force ten times their size. Whatever the traditional animosity between the two classes, General Shein didn't share it. At the same time, he was fully conversant with the Russian army's need to modernize. Slowly, he began to smile. \"But what is 'modernize' in a world where we have people from the future? Find me two men, Georgi Ivanov. One outlander officer and a _Streltzi_. Send them to the Gun Shop. Put them in a room with the up-timer and let them argue about it. Even Korisov might have some thoughts on the matter.\"\n**Part Four**\n\n**_The year 1634_**\n**Chapter 45**\n\n**_January 1634_**\n\nAfter some initial sparring, Cass and Andrei got along quite well. Each was convinced that he was the only person that mattered and each held the other in none-too-veiled contempt, but they were useful to each other and knew it. Andrei made sure Cass had access to a plentiful supply of young girls, vodka, hunting, and other sport. In return, Cass provided Andrei with a good, and in a way more up-to-date, up-timer knowledge base.\n\nCass really was bright and his Russian was improving rapidly. He had lived in Grantville for a year and more after the Ring of Fire. A lot of tricks and workarounds had been developed in that time, so Cass was quite a bit more familiar with the how-to of building a modern tech base than most up-timers had been before the Ring of Fire. For instance:\n\n\"What you need is a drop forge, Andy,\" Cass said a few weeks after he had arrived at the Gun Shop. \"Instead of building AK3's by hand.\"\n\n\"A drop forge?\" Andrei was none too fond of being addressed as \"Andy,\" but it wasn't worth it to fight through his current hangover.\n\n\"Yep. Take a big-ass weight. Lift it up about ten feet, then drop it. Force is mass times velocity, and by the time it hits, it has some velocity to multiply the big-ass weight.\"\n\n\"And how do you lift the big weight?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter. Look, a couple of peasants turning a crank will get the job done. Sure, a steam cylinder would do it faster and more efficiently, but you want to wait for those prigs at the Dacha to get around to providing you a steam ram?\"\n\nThat was a point. Andrei was increasingly upset by the way the Dacha was being corrupted by western notions. So he nodded and they worked on the design of the drop forge. A very hot piece of iron would be placed in the bottom form. Then the weighted top form would be dropped. After which four slaves would crank the weighted top form back up and the part would be removed.\n\nIt would take four big, strong, men almost ten minutes to crank the \"hammer\" up to the top of its arch. During which time, another dollop of iron would be heated white hot. Wham! Another part.\n\nNot a completed part. The chambers had to be finished using a boring machine, also human-powered, this time two men on a stationary bicycle. The chamber locks, which on the AK3 were a lever-action made of several parts, would have the parts stamped out by drop forges, then be finished and assembled. The chambers were all of a standardized size. But Russian gunsmithing, up to this time, hadn't focused at all on heavily standardized calibers. There just weren't that many rifles in Russia that had precisely the same caliber of barrel. So the new guns almost had to come out of the Gun Shop, which, when it came down to it, suited both Andrei and Cass just fine.\n\nAll this took time and it wasn't the only thing they were working on. The czar, the patriarch, and Sheremetev wanted cannon. Good cannon. Breech-loading cannon. Cass told them they couldn't do it, that they didn't have the quality of steel needed for up-time cannon.\n\nAndrei, a fairly bright guy in his own right, wanted to know why.\n\n\"Strength and flexibility,\" Cass told him. \"Modern metals are produced using precise mixes of elements: just enough carbon, just enough tungsten, just enough chromium, for a weight of steel heated to just the right heat for just the right amount of time.\"\n\nAfter some consideration, Andrei asked, \"What has to be strong and what has to be flexible?\"\n\nThe question brought Cass Lowry up short. The whole damn thing had to be strong and had to have some flexibility which was why you didn't make cast iron cannons. But he got the point. They had muzzle-loading cannons down-time. They apparently made them strong enough and flexible enough so that they didn't blow up all that often. What aspect of an up-time cannon had to have fancy modern steel? \"I'd say it's probably the breech mechanism,\" he said after a pause. \"Modern cannon use an interrupted-screw breech lock.\"\n\n\"And how does that work?\"\n\nCass described the way the screw had parts of the threading cut out of it so that it could be slid into the breech, which also had parts of its threading cut out and ended with, \"You see, the threads of the breech and of the breechblock have to be really strong and take a tremendous amount of force.\"\n\n\"Yes, I see,\" Andrei said. \"But you wouldn't need an interruption if you didn't have lots of threads. That is right, yes?\"\n\n\"Well, sure.\"\n\n\"So why can't you add more threads to the interrupted screw to compensate for the weaker metals that we have now?\"\n\nCass didn't know and hated admitting it.\n\n\"We will experiment. We will make interrupted-screw breech locks and see how well they withstand the force of firing.\"\n\n\"Fine, as long as you know I won't be standing anywhere near them when we do the test firing.\"\n\nAndrei shrugged. \"That's what slaves are for.\"\n**Chapter 46**\n\n**_February 1634_**\n\nFilip and Gregorii looked over the new steam barge design before they sealed the packet.\n\nThe more standardized design the Dacha had developed after looking over Vladimir's notes was two ten-inch-wide cylinders side-by-side, with the stroke of the first setting the second and vice versa, to produce a reciprocating engine. They didn't bother with a condenser on the ones for the steamboats and steam barges, as there was generally water available in a river. So they released the steam to the same chimney that carried the smoke fire. They used a pot boiler and ceramic tiles for the fire bed. The engines built that way\u2014and especially the boilers\u2014were so inefficient that they were an insult to steam power. However, they would fit on a thirty-foot-long, ten-foot-wide river barge and they would push the thing through the water.\n\n\"I think it's ready,\" Filip said. \"We'll send it on to Murom in the next pouch.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIn the Dacha, Sofia's eyes sparkled like cold black diamonds. \"Nevertheless, it cannot be you that goes. You are needed here. Bernie needs you. Boris and Mariya need you. You may not abandon that trust.\"\n\nNatasha stopped her pacing. She'd been trying too hard to justify being the person who went to Grantville to determine whether or not Brandy Bates was acceptable to the czar as her brother's wife. She knew it. \"But I so want to see it, Aunt Sofia,\" she whined. \"So very much.\" She threw herself onto a bench. \"Vladimir is there. I miss him. And I want to see it.\"\n\n\"Even so.\" Sofia's eyes softened. \"I know, dear.\" She patted Natasha's hand. \"I know.\" She grinned. \"So do I want to go.\" Then she straightened her shoulders. \"But we must carry on here. Czar Mikhail has said that he will consider this marriage, but there must be a senior female of the family to examine Brandy. And I know just who to send.\" She cackled in laughter. \"Oh, my. It will do them so much good.\"\n\nAs it turned out, Aunt Sofia was not entirely in control of who was sent to Grantville. The other great houses wanted their say as well. A friend of Sofia, true enough, would be one of the three dragons sent; the next would come from the Sheremetev clan and an aunt of the czarina would be the other.\n\nAll of which would come as a surprise to Vladimir back in Grantville.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I didn't really believe it. Not until I saw that.\" Vladimir watched the _Las Vegas Belle_ until it was out of sight. Even after the months since the first flight, he still wasn't entirely sure he believed it. And slowly he began to smile. \"I believe that turnabout is fair play, Brandy. Perhaps I should write Bernie that I insist that he build me an airplane. And a factory for cars. And an oil refinery.\"\n\n\"Soda pop.\" Brandy looked in the direction where the plane had disappeared. \"Real, old-fashioned Coca-Cola. I miss those. New movies, instead of rewatching all the old ones. Xerox machines for quick copies. Um, we can probably think up a bunch of other stuff to demand. They won't be very realistic, I imagine, but it might be kind of fun to make a demand instead of trying to satisfy them. Besides, they might just do it.\"\n\nThey walked slowly to Brandy's house thinking up ever more outrageous things to demand of Bernie and the \"brain cases\" in Russia and laughing at their demands. No one could be sad on a day like today.\n\nThey turned up the walk to Brandy's house and she hesitated a bit. Vladimir knew that it was because her mother had died there.\n\nHe'd been surprised, three days after Donna died, by the attendance at her funeral. It seemed like a large number of people showed up. Most unusual was the cluster of young girls around Brandy. One of them was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Her hair was a deep auburn and her skin was clear with just a few freckles.\n\nBrandy had, in compliance with Donna's wishes, arranged a simple graveside service. It was very brief. Afterward, people visited with one another and everyone spoke to Brandy and her father Vernon for a moment or two. Brandy introduced Vladimir to the cluster of young girls. They were . . . quite exceptional, he thought.\n\nMuch to Vladimir's surprise, Vernon was one of the first to leave. \"He's just not good at emotions.\" Brandy had noticed Vladimir watching Vernon. \"He never has been. He's closed up, like in a shell or something. It drove Mom crazy. That, I think, is why they got divorced. Mom was too emotional for him, I guess.\"\n\nVladimir looked down at her. \"I promise you. I promise you that I will never be so, so . . .\"\n\n\"Calm and dispassionate?\" Her tears started flowing again. \"Good. I don't think I'd like it any better than Mom did.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe sound of the doorbell jerked Brandy to alertness. She smoothed down her dress and checked her reflection in the mirror before opening the door. _Here goes,_ she thought.\n\nVladimir stood on the porch, smiling at her. Her breath caught a bit. They'd been dating a long time, but this was the first time they'd been alone together. Really alone. No servants. No Mom. Brandy still felt Donna's loss keenly. But a person had to move on. This dinner was an effort to do that.\n\n\"Come in, please.\" Brandy smiled as Vladimir brought his left hand from behind his back with a flourish. His eyes twinkled a bit. \"A guest should not arrive empty-handed. So, I brought you this.\"\n\nThis was not flowers or candy, or even a bottle of wine. Vladimir had brought a bag of coffee beans. Brandy grinned. \"Good. We'll have some later.\" She stood aside and waved Vladimir inside. \"Dinner will be ready in just a moment. I hope you like it.\"\n\nVladimir looked around the room. \"You have changed a few things, Branya. Not much, just a little. The home seems somehow more your own, now.\"\n\n\"Just a little.\" Brandy felt sad for a moment. \"I loved my mother, but I never cared for that 'country' look she liked so much. So I sort of streamlined the room a bit.\" A dinging sound came from the kitchen. \"One thing about a house this size, you can hear the timer. Come on in. The table is ready and it sounds like dinner is, too.\"\n\nBrandy ushered Vladimir into the small dining area where she had used Donna's best china and crystal to set the table. \"Have a seat. I'll be right back.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBrandy came back with a large platter of something. Noodles, Vladimir thought. He was fond of noodles. But what was covering them? It smelled wonderful, whatever it was.\n\nBrandy set the platter on the table. \"I've got no idea if this is really a Russian dish. But Cora said it was, so I tried it. I hope it's good. I'm not really much of a cook. Mom tried, but I wasn't very interested, to tell the truth.\"\n\nThe smell had Vladimir salivating. \"I don't care if it's Russian, Branya. It smells wonderful. Just wonderful.\"\n\nBrandy smiled widely and served Vladimir a portion of the dish, whatever it was. She poured wine for them both and indicated the salad and bread on the table. \"Thank heaven for greenhouses. We always had lettuce back then. I'd miss it if we didn't have it here, even if it isn't the iceberg I'm used to.\" Apparently noticing Vladimir's hesitation, she urged, \"Go ahead. Dig in.\"\n\nVladimir did. The scent was marvelous and the taste even more so. It only needed one thing. \"Is there, perhaps, some _smetana_?\"\n\nBrandy gave him a look and he grinned guiltily. Brandy had commented before about his liking for _smetana_. He put it in nearly everything he ate, including stew. \"It has quite a bit in it already.\" She passed him the dish full of sour cream. \"But I knew you'd want more. Is it all right? Does it taste good?\"\n\nVladimir nodded, busying himself with the dish. \"Marvelous.\" He added sour cream to his plate. \"Marvelous. I'm afraid I'm ruined for Russian cooking, at least the cooking back in my Russia. Ruined. I may never wish to go back, just for the flavor of the food alone. What is this called?\"\n\n\"Beef Stroganoff.\"\n\nVladimir ate until Brandy was pretty sure he was about to explode\n\n* * *\n\n\"Marvelous,\" he said. Several times. Well, it was, but that was only part of the reason he kept saying it. Vladimir was terrified.\n\n* * *\n\nAfter dinner, over coffee in the living room, Brandy began to feel a little awkward. What did you say now? How did you handle this kind of privacy when you didn't have any intention of needing, well, this kind of privacy? Not yet, at any rate.\n\nVladimir solved the problem by beginning to speak. \"Natasha tells me that the situation in Russia is quite tense. Czar Mikhail has vaguely suggested a constitution to replace the agreement he made on assuming the throne. Such a document would be binding not only on him, but on all future czars. Most importantly though, it would also be binding on the _Boyar_ _Duma_ and bureaus and replace the _Zemsky Sobor_ with an elected legislature or perhaps turn the Assembly of the Land into such a congress.\"\n\n\"Yes. Natasha mentioned it. I understand that the income tax and the business tax are meeting quite a bit of resistance.\"\n\n\"That's a diplomatic way of putting it.\" Vladimir laughed. \"I worked it out. It would cost my family several million of your dollars every year. While my family is quite well off, we're not the richest nobles in Russia, not by any means. If that tax is done just a little bit wrong, it could ruin half the nobles in Russia. I sent my sister a description of your system of tax deductions for things like capital investment along with Cass and Bernie's 'Precious.' Frankly, I don't think it will happen unless Czar Mikhail can come up with something to sweeten the pot.\"\n\n\"So, what can he give them?\"\n\n\"For right now, I'm not sure.\" Vladimir leaned back on the couch. \"But in a few years, relief from having to have serfs might do it.\"\n\n\"Don't count on it, Vladimir.\" Brandy shook her head. \"The serfs could end up as factory workers and have even less freedom than they have now. 'I owe my soul to the company store.' If it could happen in America, where we\u2014at least in theory\u2014all had the same rights, think how much easier it could happen in Russia where serfs are already restricted in when they can quit.\"\n\nVladimir sighed. \"I know. Adam Smith and all your economists tell us that free labor is more productive than slaves or serfs. That slavery and serfdom is bad for the economy of the nation. But what they usually neglect to mention is that it's still very profitable for the people who own the slaves.\" He looked down at his coffee cup.\n\n\"Brandy, I've lived here for a long time and have accepted many of your principles, but that doesn't mean my countrymen have. I agree that serfdom must be eliminated but I don't see any way to do it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWhen Brandy got up to light the gas lights against the darkening of the room, Vladimir moved just a tad closer to her end of the sofa. Whenever she leaned forward to pour more coffee, or stood to busy herself with something, he moved just a little bit closer. Eventually, Vladimir was right where he wanted to be. Close, nearly touching.\n\nBrandy looked a little nervous when she discovered just how close he was. Deciding not to give her, or himself, a chance to bolt, Vladimir took one of her hands in his own. \"Branya, I have something I want to speak of, something that is not about Bernie or even about Russia.\"\n\nBrandy's breath caught just a bit before she nodded at him. \"You can speak to me about anything, Vladimir. What is it?\"\n\nHe had been quite confident of her response when he had written the letters asking permission from Czar Mikhail and informing Natasha of his intent. Somehow, that confidence had disappeared when he had been informed that Mikhail had agreed to the marriage\u2014at least conditionally. The condition being that she make a valid conversion. And Natasha had informed him that several ladies from Russia would be coming to Grantville to look Brandy over. At that point he had seen the looming disaster of the dragons arriving to inspect her before he even asked for her hand.\n\nBut Vladimir was still hesitating and Brandy was looking at him expectantly. \"I am not one of your up-time men, Branya. And I may not have the correct words. But I have grown very . . . fond of you. Very fond. And I, I . . .\" Vladimir paused a moment. \"I wish you to be my wife, Branya. I wish it very much.\"\n\nBrandy's eyes glittered in the candlelight. \"Wife? You want to get _married_?\"\n\n\"I do,\" Vladimir said. He watched her face closely. What would she answer?\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n* * *\n\nHalf an hour later, after some very pleasant kissing and some not so pleasant explanation. Brandy wasn't quite so sure.\n\n\"We don't do that,\" Vladimir said, sounding a bit desperate. \"Abandon thy family, abjure thy name.\" He shook his head. \"It sounds glorious, but Romeo and Juliet ended up dead. Were I to marry without the czar's consent, our family's property could be seized and my sister could end her life in a convent. Forced to take holy orders. Not because Mikhail would want to do it, but because the cabinet would insist.\"\n\nBrandy knew that was all too likely an outcome. But Vladimir was continuing. \"If I asked the czar first and you said no, I would look foolish. But if I asked you first and the czar said no, I didn't know what I would do. I didn't wish to make a promise to you until I was sure I could keep it.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"All right!\" Judy the Younger Wendell was grinning from ear to ear. \"So, when's the wedding, Brandy? What are you going to wear?\"\n\n\"I don't know to the first question.\" Brandy took a sip of root beer. \"And I don't know to the second one, for that matter.\"\n\nBrandy's friends looked confused. As a group they were often called the Barbie Consortium because they were teenagers who had gotten rich selling their old dolls\u2014which, in one of the Ring of Fire's most quirky ramifications, turned out to be highly prized objects for Europe's wealthy classes. They were quite bright, generally speaking, but as could be expected from girls most of whom were no older than sixteen, their experience with life in general was limited.\n\nMarriage was simple and straightforward, in their world view. Fall in love; get married; the bride wears a really nifty outfit and the bridesmaids wear outfits that are almost as nifty, there's a big cake which is usually cut by the groom and in the seventeenth century they thought he got to use a really nifty sword for the purpose.\n\n\"It's more complicated than I knew,\" Brandy sighed. \"It turns out that Vladimir is sort of a prince or something like that. He can't just get married, not to a foreigner, not to anybody, really. He has to get permission.\"\n\nVicky Emerson looked outraged. \"What, from his father? He's a grown man! Why does he have to ask for permission?\"\n\nBrandy shook her head. \"His parents are dead. Both of them. He's got a sister, Natasha. No, it's not his parents, it's the czar. He had to get permission from the czar. He apparently asked him before he asked me. And the czar has already sent a bunch of dragon ladies from Russia to check me out,\" Brandy added, with some resentment. Vladimir had explained that they had to do it that way but it still ticked her off. \"And then there's the religion thing, too.\"\n\n\"Religion thing?\" Hayley Fortney paused in the act of sipping tea. \"There's a religion thing, too?\"\n\nBrandy nodded again, and sort of sighed. \"Yeah. It's all going to take a while, it looks like. I'd just as soon go down to City Hall and have a civil ceremony, get all the hoopla over with. But Vladimir's church will not recognize a civil ceremony, he says. It's against canonical law. And, it turns out that if he gets married in any church except a Russian Orthodox church, he could be charged with treason. So we figure we better wait.\"\n\n\"That's kind of hard, isn't it?\" Judy looked around at the girls. \"Your Vladimir is a nice-looking guy. A nice guy in general, for that matter. I bet you hate waiting.\"\n\n\"Well, one thing about it.\" Brandy shrugged. \"At least we ought to be really sure about it when it does happen. Vladimir says he probably ought to have a priest come here, anyway. Natasha is sending a bunch of people from his lands and they're all going to go to school here. And to the oil field. So they need a priest. They wouldn't be comfortable going to St. Mary's. We're probably looking at another three months to wait. If we're lucky.\"\n\n\"That's just about enough time,\" Judy muttered.\n\n\"Enough time?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Judy grinned. \"Just about enough time to plan a really big, really nice wedding, no matter what else is going on here. Or in Russia, for that matter.\"\n**Chapter 47**\n\n**_March 1634_**\n\nCass Lowry grinned as he idly played with an AK3 chamber, thinking about his profits. He was indeed still working at the Gun Shop, and it was proving very profitable. From his reassignment to the Gun Shop back in January, he had been helping Andrei, not just in gun production, but in gun allocation. Because in Russia everyone was on the take and everyone could be bribed. He casually slid the chamber back into his bandolier. It was nice, that bandolier. Tooled leather with gold leaf, and it really set off his midnight blue jacket.\n\nWell, almost everyone. There were half-a-dozen steam-ram drop forges in Murom, the seat of the Gorchakov family, and one at the Dacha. But Cass and Andrei couldn't get any of those. There were too few for any to get \"lost.\" A steam-ram was a single-cylinder steam engine, but it had to be a high-pressure steam engine because of the amount of force it had to deliver to lift the incredibly heavy weight of the drop hammer. Made of metal and with the need to withstand hundreds of pounds per square inch, they were very hard for the smiths of Russia to make, so there still weren't many available.\n\nSlaves and serfs, however, were not a problem. The Sheremetev family and their _deti boyars_ had lands all over the place and they were looking for things to put their serfs to work on over the winter. And they weren't the only ones. In winter you could get the labor of serfs for little more than their maintenance. So the Gun Shop had gone with the serf-powered-crank drop forge rather than the steam-powered one. It took ten minutes to slowly crank the hammer up to drop height, but that was still three chambers or chamber locks an hour. Besides, the time it took to crank the hammer up gave the die time to cool between drops, and given the quality of the metal, a hot die wasn't a good idea.\n\nThe crank version, though simpler than the steam-ram would have been, still took a couple of weeks to build. Russia had lots of rivers but the Gun Shop had no waterfalls handy. There were, though, lots of peasants and more than a few out-and-out slaves. So a two-man crank to lift the hammer, which had a die of pretty good high-carbon steel, was more than possible. The hammer dropped on an anvil, which had its own matching die, and _wham_ , one semi-finished part. The flash, the excess material, had to be removed and the part had to be finished, but that could be done by hand.\n\nThere had already been a couple of puddle steel foundries when Cass had gotten here. And the Gun Shop had a high enough priority to get some of the steel and have it shaped into the dies they needed.\n\nIt was when they were working on getting the steel that Cass remembered the advantages of a high failure rate. Andrei had been complaining about the crappy progress of the drop forge for making the chambers. Too many of the chambers were not fully formed. Cass remembered something about a supply of black-market computer chips, some spy story or cop story, where the chips turned out to be being made in the factory that made the legal ones, but were marked down as defective, then sold. So they worked out a deal where the parts that were \"not good enough\" were sold as scrap to an iron monger. They ended up having to cut in the iron monger for a small piece of the action and a cousin of Sheremetev for a bigger one, but it worked. And Cass had had a down-time made Colt six-shooter with him when he'd arrived. So they started making those on the side, and they were selling faster than he could make them. Not that they could make them all that fast here in Russia. These people were even more primitive than the Germans.\n\nThe door slammed open, jerking Cass out of his daydreaming. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"We got a message from Moscow,\" Andrei said. \"A rider brought it.\"\n\n\"Why didn't they use the radio?\" Cass asked. He and Andrei generally preferred to only deal with the spies they knew about. They weren't fond of visits from Moscow.\n\n\"It's broken. Again,\" Andrei said. The radio network was new, incomplete, and full of problems. It was plagued with equipment failures because each and every radio was hand-built, as were the alternators that powered them. Andrei handed Cass the message.\n\nCass looked at it blankly. Cass couldn't read Russian, as Andrei well knew. It was just one more of Andrei's little digs. Just like the double bandolier Andrei was wearing. More tooling than Cass had, and way the hell more gold leaf. Cass had introduced the bandoliers less than a month after arriving at the Gun Shop and over the past couple of months they'd become all the rage. The advertisement of personal power and wealth that a bandolier full of chambers represented was irresistible to a certain class of Russian noble.\n\n\"General Kabanov wants to know when we will be delivering the shipment of AK3's to the Moscow _Streltzi_. He's getting impatient. If we don't get them there soon, he's liable to call for an investigation.\"\n\n\"Ivan Petrovich Sheremetev will never let that happen,\" Cass said. \"He's in this up to his eyeballs. We had to pay him enough. Tell Kabanov a month, just like we agreed. Look, Andrei, we've talked this out before. Everybody knows that we're skimming. Only you, me and Ivan Petrovich know how much. This is brand new stuff. There's no way for anybody outside to tell how many failures we have for every working gun. A fifty percent failure rate isn't unreasonable. And a forty percent failure rate, with us skimming ten percent, that's pretty good. Most of your guys aren't going to realize how well the drop forges are working now. So we sell one gun for every gun we deliver and we make a fortune. We deliver two chambers with every gun and sell five, and we make another fortune. We keep it up a few years, then we retire to rich estates, just like we planned.\"\n\nAndrei was rubbing his hands together but it was clear to Cass that Andrei's sense of entitlement was winning out over his caution.\n\n\"So we write General Kabanov a nice letter, telling him that we've had serious quality control problems, but we will, through long hours and hard work, soon have the full complement of two hundred rifles for the Moscow _Streltzi_.\"\n\n\"And what do we tell him about the cannon?\"\n\nCass winced. The cannon were a whole other issue. Cass wasn't the most sensitive guy around and he had killed people in the heat of a fight and worked the servants hard in the Gun Shop, but the casual way Andrei sacrificed serfs and slaves to the development of new weapons had horrified him. Well, bothered him, anyway. The problem with the cannon was figuring out how many teeth an iron breechblock needed\u2014or even a moderately high carbon steel one.\n\nWhen Cass had arrived, Andrei was working up an interrupted screw ten threads deep. Vladimir had provided the basic designs. When a double-charge, the standard testing charge, was tried in the gun, it had blown the breech out as though it hadn't had any threads. The breechblock had sailed like a cannon ball, bounced off the ground, shifting fifteen degrees to the right, torn through a wall twenty meters behind the gun, and killed four people. Kill was really too mild a word. It had pureed four people. Or at least the parts of them that had been in the way. The only good thing you could say about it was it had mostly been quick.\n\nAndrei wanted to try a fifteen-thread interrupted-screw design next and that was what they had done. Andrei also wanted a Welin breechblock, but he couldn't have one. The Welin was a complex breechblock with levels of threading so that more of the breech could be threaded. But while Russian craftsmen were good they were _slow! slow! slow!_ in terms of making something as big and complex as a Welin block. Between the Russian craftsmen and the Dacha, they could make standard bolt-cutting and nut-cutting tools in the sizes needed, so the Gun Shop could cut the threads in the breech and the breechblock. But the sort of complex shaping necessary for the Welin would have to be done by hand. And it would take months for a single breech to be hand cut. They made do with an interrupted-screw. Cut the threads into the block and the breech, then grind down the threads so that the block could be slid into the breech and screwed a quarter turn to lock it in place. That meant they needed a longer block and more threads to hold the same amount of force and the metal they were using wasn't as consistent in its strength as twentieth-century metals which\u2014again\u2014meant a longer, heavier block.\n\nCass' first contribution had been the notion of starting with a quarter-charge and gradually increasing the charge till they got to the standard double-charge or the breech blew so they would be able to tell how much they needed. \"After all,\" Cass had argued, \"with a breech loader we can open the breech and use a ramrod to clear the barrel if we need to.\"\n\nThat had saved time by letting them know just how much of a charge was needed to blast out a fifteen-thread deep breechblock. It turned out that to be safe they needed a thirty-thread block and that made for a very heavy breechblock. It needed supporting gear and bearings to hold it up and make it movable. And it was what would be called in another universe a \"three-motion\" block. Rotate, pull out, swing aside\u2014four actions in point of fact\u2014because a blast shield had to be swung into place. Some of the charge leaked out the less-than-perfect seal between the breechblock and the bore of the gun. Enough to be deadly dangerous to the gun crew without the shield.\n\nAll of this made the process of loading the rifled piece cumbersome. Not, however, as cumbersome as loading a muzzle-loader. They were small-bore guns for the weight of shot they fired and because they were rifled, they had a smoother, straighter trajectory. But they were slow to make and expensive. The Gun Shop had two of the eighty-caliber light cannon ready and parts for four more, but it took weeks to finish and fit the breechblock and threading for each gun. They might have four ready by the end of May, but three was more likely.\n\nCass shook his head. \"Tell him we'll try, but we don't expect to have four by the end of May or five by the end of June. We'll send him the guns as fast as we get them made and we'll go ahead and send the two we have to now so he can train crews on them.\" Cass paused. \"The volley guns are doing well. And we should have half-a-dozen of them by the end of May.\" Fortunately the volley guns used the standard chamber and barrel of the AK3. It just used twenty-four of them in three rows of eight. All they needed was the plate that held the chambers in place and the mounting carriage. It would divert some of their on-the-side AK3 rifle production, but this way they could claim that the volley guns were the cause of the delay.\n**Chapter 48**\n\n**_April 1634_**\n\n\"The police want to talk to you,\" Gregorii said in his heavy Russian accent.\n\n\"Oh, Lord,\" Brandy muttered. \"What's gone wrong now?\" She picked up the phone receiver and said, \"This is Brandy Bates. How can I help you?\"\n\n\"Is that you, Brandy? I was trying for your Russian,\" Angela Baker, the police dispatcher said.\n\n\"He's off doing spy stuff, I bet, Angela. What's up?\"\n\n\"Well . . . we've got a caravan of Russians downtown. Lots of them. Are they yours?\"\n\nBrandy's heart sank into her stomach. \"Probably. We were expecting them around now. More or less.\"\n\nAngela laughed. \"I'll send them out to you.\"\n\n\"Gee, thanks.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe dragon ladies didn't arrive alone. Over a hundred Russians came with them: a priest, his family, students of medicine, engineering, architecture, aeronautics, oil wildcatting and a host of other interests. But the dragon ladies ruled the caravan, three ladies of great houses. All three of them were mothers or grandmothers of boyars. One was a friend of Vladimir's Aunt Sofia, Madam Lukashenko.\n\nShe was, Vladimir insisted, Brandy's friend at court. Brandy's enemy at court was Madam Sheremetev, as the old bat made clear with a sniff the day they arrived. The neutral, Madam Streshnyova, was a friend of the czarina's mother, which Brandy figured was at least marginally a good thing. By now Bernie had been in Moscow for over two years. A Russian had flown not that long after Jesse Wood did. Admittedly, in a lighter-than-air balloon rather than an airplane, but flying was flying. There were plows and Fresno scrapers being made in some place called Murom. And an essential element to it all was Vladimir Gorchakov. Increasingly Brandy Bates was another essential element, doing for Vladimir here in Grantville what Bernie was doing in Russia.\n\nAs she did right now, arranging for housing for the flood of new arrivals. A number were allowed to rest from their trip, then sent on to the Wietze oil fields. Some were set up in one of the new subdivisions that had sprung up outside of the Ring of Fire and some were installed in the _Residentz_. But while Brandy could place most of them, the dragon ladies were unwilling to go where they were told.\n\n\"What about suites at the Higgins Hotel?\" Brandy asked, feeling a bit desperate. Madam Sheremetev and her kabuki makeup was about the scariest woman she'd ever met.\n\n\"Oh, not for me,\" Madam Lukashenko said. \"I told Sofia that I'd stay with you. Natasha said that you have a fine house, the one your mother left you.\"\n\n_Great_ , Brandy thought. _A built-in chaperone, what a thrill._ She forced a smile. \"That will be splendid, Madam Lukashenko. I do have three bedrooms, if another of you would like to stay with me.\"\n\nMadam Sheremetev sniffed. Again. That sniff was beginning to make Brandy jump, because it always boded ill. \"The, ah, Higgins, you said? A suite there, I think.\"\n\nBrandy couldn't resist. \"I'll call and see if they have one available. They might not have room.\"\n\n\"Of course, they will make room for me.\"\n\n\"I'd be very careful of expressing that view at the Higgins,\" Brandy said, enjoying the moment. \"You wouldn't be the first great lady to be told that there's no room for you there, even if the hotel was empty. Delia Higgins does what she wants.\"\n\nThat sniff again. A big sniff this time.\n\n\"And you, Madam Streshnyova? Where would you like to stay? The _Residentz_ is pretty full.\"\n\nMadam Streshnyova was Brandy's favorite so far. It didn't seem to matter to her that her niece was the czarina. And Brandy could tell that Madam Streshnyova was sick to death of Madam Sheremetev.\n\n\"Oh, anywhere is fine for me,\" Madam Streshnyova said. \"I don't need the Higgins. Perhaps there's another hotel? Or a room at the _Residentz_ , if that's possible.\"\n\nBrandy decided to make it possible, one way or another.\n\n* * *\n\nSince Brandy had gone and fallen in love with the dashing Russian prince, she buckled in and the Barbies helped. Well, the Barbies helped some, as they had time. They were still going to school, they had their business interests, but they did manage to pop up and save the day more than once.\n\nThe wedding had a tentative date sometime in the summer of this year. Meanwhile, the dragon ladies were going over Brandy's pedigree and tut-tutting all the while because they couldn't find any nobility at all in Brandy's recorded ancestry. They were discovering for themselves what any number of western European down-timers had already learned\u2014that Americans just didn't fit neatly into established lines, pedigrees and social estates. Technically, all up-timers were commoners. In the real world . . .\n\nIt wasn't that simple. Any number of down-time prominent families had already tacitly decided that for all social purposes up to and including marriage Americans could be considered equivalent to the aristocracy. \"Honorary noblemen,\" as it were. But the Russian delegation was made of sterner stuff and not yet ready to call it quits.\n\nBy May, Brandy was ready to pull a Saint George on all three of the dragon ladies. But letters were still flowing back and forth between her and her Russian pen pals. The czarina was enthusiastic about the dirigible they were building in Bor on the Volga, though it was expected to take over a year to complete. Natasha was enthusiastic about the new industries that were starting up in Russia, especially in Moscow and Natasha's family seat, a town called Murom on the Oka River. The Oka, Brandy learned, was the river route from Moscow to the Volga and Nizhny Novgorodi. The Volga was developing into the Russian industrial corridor. And, in some ways, it was doing it faster than it was happening in Germany. Russia had farther to go and fewer people to take it there, but it was an autocratic state. If the government decided there would be a dirigible, there darn well will be a dirigible. If Princess Natasha decided that they would build steam engines in Murom, they will darn well build steam engines in Murom.\n\nAn open society whose economy was based mostly on free enterprise might be great for innovation and dynamic in the long run. But over the fall of 1633 Brandy had been forced to the realization that when it came to putting innovations into production . . . well, the expression \"shoot the engineer and put it into production\" took on a whole new urgency when the authority really could shoot the engineer. It wasn't nice and it didn't fit with her image of either Natasha or the czarina, but it did get results. It got results even when neither Natasha or the czarina had any intention of shooting anyone. Just the fact that they could brought results.\n\nBrandy paid attention to these things in part because it was increasingly her job as Vladimir's primary up-timer consultant, but also because it gave her something to distract her from worrying about what the dragon ladies from the Russian steppes were sending home and whether they would be able to scuttle the wedding.\n\n* * *\n\n\"That . . . that . . . raving bitch!\"\n\n\"What's the matter now, my darling?\" Vladimir asked. \"Which of our dragon ladies has made you angry?\"\n\n\"Madam Sheremetev.\"\n\n\"Because . . .\"\n\n\"She said that if she sends a bad report about me, the czar would change his mind about letting you marry me. And you told me he said yes already. So which is it, dammit?\"\n\n\"Yes, the czar gave his consent,\" __ Vladimir said, suddenly even more worried. \"But a bad report\u2014if it is bad enough\u2014 _might_ cause him to reconsider. That is, I agree, what Madam Sheremetev strongly implies at every opportunity.\"\n\n\"Does the old bat actually have that kind of power over us?\"\n\n\"Probably not. But she does want you to believe that.\"\n\n\"What can we do?\"\n\n\"It's the way they are, the Sheremetevs. Obviously, she wants something else. Some kind of procedure, some kind of machine, something her family can make money and power off of.\"\n\n\"Well, do we bribe her? Or just blow her off? We better decide something quick. She said, not quite in so many words, that she's going to send her report pretty soon.\"\n\nVladimir knew this was pretty standard procedure for the Sheremetev family and confirmed that she was likely to write such a letter. He wasn't all that worried about it actually convincing the czar to cancel the wedding. After all, Brandy was friends with the czarina, which equated to having a pretty good friend at court. \"If there is something you can think of to give her, go ahead.\"\n\nAfter some consideration, Brandy decided to try giving the old bat photography, or at least to point her in that direction. Brandy had a talk with Father Gavril, the Orthodox priest sent to Grantville, and they determined that photographs didn't count as prohibited drawings any more than icons did, but for a different reason. Photographs were in effect drawn by God\u2014His light painting the image rather than the corrupt hand of man. Brandy put together a packet and gave it to Madam Sheremetev who sent it off to Moscow and was almost nice to Brandy for a week or so before she started asking for something else.\n\nBy the time the ice would start forming on the Oka River in the fall of 1634, the Sheremetev family would be making photographs on their estates and arguing that they didn't owe any duties on them because they had gotten them directly from Grantville not from the Dacha.\n\nBy that same time, of course, Natasha already had a steam engine factory, a celluloid\/cellophane\/rayon factory, a wood pulp-based paper mill, a shop making capacitors and half a dozen other projects up and running. Each managed by a member of the _Streltzi_ class who was becoming effectively a _deti boyar_ of the Gorchakov family.\n\n* * *\n\nBrandy would never be more glad to see the back of anyone as she would be to see the backs of the dragon ladies when they headed back to Russia.\n\nBrandy was plenty busy with her correspondence and her work with Vladimir.\n\nAs the wedding approached, Brandy got a letter from Natasha describing the Sheremetev's machinations with the photography.\n\n_Having established that because the Sheremetev clan got the photographic process directly from Grantville instead of from us_ , Natasha wrote, _they are now claiming that they got everything from the Fresno scrapers to steam engines directly from Grantville and not from the Dacha._\n\n_Cass Lowry is still working in the gun shop,_ Natasha's letter continued, _and has made friends among Sheremetev's supporters. I find myself wishing that he was either a little less useful or a lot less obnoxious. He seems to think that he was literally adopted into the clan, not just that he's become one of their supporters. The idiot. The Sheremetevs are just using him. Apparently, Cass was given a harem and quite a bit of money and lands. For which Sheremetev gets his own Bernie, though not one who seems to work as well as the real Bernie does with us down-timers._\n**Chapter 49**\n\n**_May 1634_**\n\n\"Princess?\" Anya said. \"What are these?\" Anya held up some sheets of paper and Natasha looked at them.\n\n\"Oh. Those.\" Natasha sat down next to Anya and said quietly, \"You know the dies we made for the Gun Shop?\"\n\nAnya nodded.\n\n\"I had an extra set made and sent it to Murom. I'm having AK3's made for my armsmen.\"\n\n\"How many?\"\n\n\"Not a lot. A couple of hundred. You know that we'd be last in line, with Andrei Korisov and Cass Lowry doing the distribution.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Have you seen the latest?\" Pavel Egorovich Shirshov asked, handing a pamphlet to Ivan Mikhailovich Vinnikov.\n\nThe guard captain looked at the pamphlet and began to read silently.\n\n\"Out loud if you don't mind,\" Pavel Egorovich said testily. Though a skilled craftsman, he didn't read.\n\nIvan Mikhailovich cast him an apologetic look and began to read out loud. \"If we are to have a constitution it must ensure the rights of all Russian citizens . . .\" He continued reading. It was an argument that without a section limiting government, the constitution would be just another way to tie the people down. The writer actually seemed to wonder if a constitution was a good idea at all. Then he went on to\u2014purportedly\u2014quote a conversation between members of the boyar class. A cousin and a younger son of one of the great families. They were reported to have said that the great families thought that a constitution would be a great thing if they got to write it. The conversation was supposed to have been overheard in a brothel.\n\n\"Any idea who wrote this?\" Ivan asked, a bit nervously. This was the sort of thing that could get people in serious trouble.\n\nPavel shook his head. \"A boy in Moscow was selling them on the street. Couldn't have been more than ten or so.\" That was happening more and more frequently. Scandals mixed with political opinion.\n\n\"I talked to one of them a bit a few days ago.\" Pavel commuted back and forth between the Army's dacha and the Kremlin every few days. \"He sells his papers to make a bit of money. He buys them from a man he thinks is a bureau man, but it could be a merchant. There is apparently more than one man, and they don't all meet in the same place.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"It says here that this Patriarch Nikon caused it.\" Colonel Pavel Kovezin stared at the broadsheet with distaste clearly showing on his face.\n\nMachek Speshnev, who had brought this news to the colonel, nodded. A lieutenant in this regiment of _Streltzi_ , Machek was a pious man. This information had struck a chord with him, as well as with many other members of the Palace Guard Regiments.\n\n\"I'm surprised this information became public, but it has. The question is, is there anything we can do about it?\" Machek's family would most definitely wind up as oppressed \"Old Believers,\" he was sure. \"I don't think I'd care to be sent up north, chasing, beating and killing priests.\"\n\nThe very idea was repugnant.\n\nA lot of information that was coming from the up-timer histories was repugnant. Inconceivable, a lot of it.\n\nColonel Kovezin stopped staring at the broadsheet. \"How many people have seen this?\"\n\n\"A lot of them,\" Machek admitted. \"The things have been being passed around all over the city. Along with the ones about killing rats, boiling water, not drinking so much . . .\"\n\n\"This city is being buried in paper,\" Colonel Kovezin said. Then he grinned. \"We live in interesting times. Never mind this. I'm sure the patriarch is well aware of it and will make a pronouncement. Try to keep the men calm. Today is a big day for us and I want everyone's attention kept on his duty.\"\n\nMachek grinned back. \"Today is the day?\"\n\n\"Yes. Today we receive our new rifles. Never mind the flurry of paper coming out of the Dacha. It's not our problem.\"\n**Chapter 50**\n\n**_Moscow_**\n\n**_June 1634_**\n\nThird Lieutenant Boris Timofeyevich Lebedev was savoring the victory. Right up to the time he was called into the commandant's office. He had beaten Third Lieutenant Ivan Maslov in the Polish invasion scenario two weeks ago and won a nice purse in the bargain. The betting had been five to one against him. Lebedev, known as Tim to his friends, had been playing the Polish and he had won by ignoring Smolensk. After all, Poland already held Smolensk. They had held it since the Time of Troubles. And Poland, just like Russia, only had to worry about Smolensk if they didn't have it.\n\nNow he was trying to figure out what he had done wrong, that would get him summoned by the commandant. Tim put his shoulders back and entered the commandant's office not looking left or right, stood at attention and saluted as smartly as he was able. The commandant returned the salute with a casual half wave. Then he asked him the last question he ever expected to hear. \"So, Third Lieutenant Lebedev, how did you manage to defeat the entire Russian Army and take Moscow, in just ten weeks?\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"Come now, Lebedev. It's all over the Kremlin. I understand the odds were five to one in favor of that baker's son, Ivan Maslov?\"\n\n\"Sir? Are you talking about the Polish invasion scenario?\" Tim was out of his depth. It wasn't one of the official war games.\n\n\"Yes, of course, Lebedev.\" The commandant pointed to a map on the left wall. The map showed part of Russia and part of Poland. \"Show me how you did it.\"\n\nTim walked over to the map pointed where he placed his troops and how he moved them using the River Volga as the supply line. \"Russia is not Moscow; Russia is the Volga. In the Time of Troubles, Poland took Moscow but they couldn't keep it. But the Volga controls transport . . .\"\n\nJust as Tim was getting into his description of what he'd done, he heard another voice.\n\n\"Would it interest you to know, Lieutenant Lebedev, that Polish troops took Rzhev three days ago? From the somewhat vague first reports we have, there are around ten thousand troops there now, a mixture of the magnate's personal troops, mercenaries and Cossacks.\"\n\n\"What?\" Tim faced the new voice and recognized General Mikhail Borisovich Shein. Then, in a state of shock, he blurted out the first thing that come to mind. \"But that's the wrong place, sir.\"\n\n\"I'm relieved to hear it,\" General Shein said wryly.\n\nTim stood mute.\n\n\"Speak up, Lieutenant,\" the commandant said. \"Why do you think Rzhev is the wrong place?\"\n\n\"It's too far upriver, sir. The Volga is navigable at Rzhev but only barely. Tver would be a better choice, even if it is farther. You'd want to take Rzhev, too. Later. After the first strike. But if you take Rzhev first, you warn Tver and give them time to fort up and block any river traffic from going past.\"\n\nGeneral Shein looked at the commandant. \"He'll do.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAfter that, things moved quickly. Third Lieutenant Boris \"Tim\" Lebedev found himself suddenly assigned as aide de camp to General Artemi Vasilievich Izmailov.\n\n\"Third Lieutenant Boris Lebedev reporting as ordered.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\"\n\n\"Sir, I'm to be your cadet aide de camp.\"\n\n\"I asked for Maslov! The baker's boy.\" General Izmailov was clearly not pleased.\n\n\"Ivan?\"\n\n\"You know him?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. We're friends at the military academy.\" That was the semiofficial name of the still semiofficial officer training school that was growing in the Kremlin.\n\nGeneral Izmailov paused and give Tim's uniform a careful once over. \"Let me guess. Your father is a boyar or duma man?\"\n\nSuddenly Tim understood. \"A great uncle, sir.\" The pride that Tim's voice usually had in that announcement was notably missing. The general had asked for the best student in the cadet corps, Ivan Maslov. Instead he had gotten . . . well, not the highest in family rank. There were a lot of high family kids among the cadets. It was quite the fashion these days. No, what the general had received was a cadet of acceptable social rank and lesser skill. Even if Tim had beaten Ivan once.\n\nGeneral Izmailov was not usually placed in independent command. For the same reason\u2014he didn't have enough social or family rank. In fact, he was officially second in command of the army they were raising right now, placed temporarily in command of the advance column.\n\nGeneral Izmailov shrugged and got down to business. \"I'll be leading a reconnaissance in force and\u2014if necessary\u2014a delaying action while the reserves are called up. The reconnaissance force is made up in part from _Streltzi_ Prince Cherkasski has loaned us from the Moscow Garrison.\" Prince Ivan Borisovich Cherkasski was the chief of the _Strel'etsky prikaz_ , Musketeer Bureau. \"They're under Colonel Usinov. We have small detachments from the Gun Shop and from the Dacha. And two regiments of cavalry under the command of Colonel Khilkov.\" General Izmailov gave Tim a look. \"Usinov has more experience but Khilkov's family is of higher rank. We have peasant levies for labor battalions. About four thousand of them. We have four brand-new cannons from the Gun Shop and some of the _Streltzi_ we're getting have been equipped with the new AK3's. From the Dacha we're getting _Testbed_ , the flying machine. I am told it is to be used only for reconnaissance. And we're getting thirty of the scrapers. There won't be time to use them much on the march, but they should help a lot with fortifications when we find our spot.\"\n\nTim nodded his understanding. \"What about the radio network, sir?\"\n\n\"Apparently there is no link going toward Rzhev. There is one going toward Smolensk, which would have given us warning if they'd come that way. Which may have something to do with why they're coming from Rzhev. Unfortunately, most of the radio network has been put in places where it would be convenient for members of the great houses, not where it would help the army.\"\n\nThe assumption was that they would meet the advancing Polish forces somewhere between Rzhev and Moscow. Meanwhile Tim was assigned fourteen different jobs, some of them in direct conflict with the others. Or at least that's how it seemed. He was to coordinate with the labor battalions, the _Streltzi_ , the Dacha contingent as well as the Gun Shop contingent, and make sure that all the various units were in the right marching order. Except that the people in charge hadn't actually decided the marching order yet. So he was given one order and then fifteen minutes later given a different order by someone else.\n\nBy noon Tim was considering the value of getting rid of the beards, as he'd read Peter the Great had done. But in his own mind, \"the beards\" were the idiots who kept harping on their noble rank, regardless of their true ability at war. _At this rate we'll meet the Poles thirty miles out of Moscow._\n\n* * *\n\nOn the first day Nikita\u2014\"call me Nick\"\u2014Ivanovich's dirigible contingent ended up at the back of the line of march, which meant that by the time they reached the campsite it was already getting dark. Tim watched as _Testbed_ lifted into the night sky and disappeared. All Tim could see was the rope from the wagon, climbing into a bit of deeper blackness which hid the stars.\n\n\"Of course, it could be that there simply wasn't that much to see,\" Nick reported a half hour later. Tim could see that General Izmailov was less than pleased. But Nick didn't seem to be worried about it. Which Tim thought was very brave or very stupid. Then he looked over at _Testbed_ , which the crew was still tying down for the night. He remembered that Nikita Ivanovich had been the first person to climb into it and had flown it without ropes to keep the wind from carrying it away. Tim still wasn't sure whether that was brave or stupid, but the \"very\" gained a whole new level of magnitude.\n\n\"Tim! _Testbed_ will be placed near the front in tomorrow's order of march,\" General Izmailov gritted. Tim knew that the general had seen the demonstration at the Dacha and had been planning to use the dirigible. But how were they supposed to know that it didn't work at night? Granted, it was pretty obvious when you thought about it. Dark is no time to observe things.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I don't believe this,\" Tim muttered. \"We'll never get there at this rate.\" The march had put them about twelve miles west of Moscow. Worse, they were _trying_ to move fast and doing it over good roads. The scrapers had improved the roads around Moscow quite a bit.\n\nHis friend and fellow student at the cadet corps, Pavel, nodded in agreement. \"Bad enough the delays because of the confusion. But Colonel Khilkov and the fit he threw when we were setting out and he discovered that we were ahead of him in the line of march was just plain stupid.\"\n\nTim figured the flare up was at least half Usinov's fault with all the gloating he was doing. But he didn't say so. Pavel was Colonel Usinov's cadet aide de camp, and thought quite highly of him. \"Just wait till he hears that General Izmailov is going to put _Testbed_ near the front of the line tomorrow.\" Tim threw his arms up and pretended to be having a fit. \"Never let it be said that mere military necessity should trump social position in the Russian army. 'My cousin is of higher rank than your uncle, so of course my company must be ahead of yours in the order of march.'\" Tim spat on the ground. \"Idiots. We're all idiots. If we go on like this we'll be defending Moscow from another Polish invasion and we'll be doing it right here. You can bet that the Poles aren't sitting on their asses in Rzhev arguing about who should be first in the line of march.\"\n**Chapter 51**\n\nTim could have bet that, but he would have lost. Because sitting on his ass arguing was precisely what Janusz Radziwill, the commander of the Polish forces, was doing. Not about the order of march, but what they should do now. Janusz, in his early twenties, was already the court chamberlain of Lithuania. That was a high post in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which he had gotten because of the influence of his cousin Albrycht Stanislaw Radziwill, Grand Chancellor of Lithuania. Janusz was sitting with his two main subordinates discussing the absence of the arms depot that they had been expecting. It was a rerun of several discussions they had since they had gotten to Rzhev and discovered that the Russian invasion Janusz' spy had informed him of was not nearly so near as they had expected.\n\n\"Ivan Repinov has confirmed everything,\" Janusz insisted again.\n\nMikhail Millerov, commander of his Cossacks, snorted. \"You can't depend on anything that rat-faced little bureau man says. I've questioned many men and his sort is the hardest to get the truth out of. Not because he's a strong man, but because he's weak. He'll tell you anything you want to hear and change his story five times in as many minutes.\"\n\n\"Yet what he said makes sense and fits with what the agent reported,\" said Eliasz Stravinsky, the commander of the western mercenaries. \"Ivan Petrovich Sheremetev is as crooked as a dog's hind leg.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" Janusz exclaimed. \"That by itself explains the situation to anyone familiar with Russia. Ivan Petrovich commits graft as other people breathe, continuously and with very little thought. And as the nephew of Prince Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev, the third power behind Cherkasski and the patriarch.\"\n\n\"Fourth, if you count the czar,\" Mikhail Millerov corrected.\n\n\"I don't,\" Janusz insisted. \"Mikhail Romanov is his father's puppet and everyone knows it. In any case, Ivan Petrovich has ample opportunity for that corruption. He got the contract for the depot and pocketed the money.\"\n\nMillerov nodded a little doubtfully, and Janusz continued. \"My agent in the Muscovite treasury bureau spent considerable time putting together the pieces. Prince Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev was clearly in charge of making the arrangements. And naturally shifted contracts to where they would do his family the most good. Corrupt, every last one of them.\" It didn't occur to Janusz to wonder what someone on the outside might think of the Polish nobility.\n\n\"Possibly . . . or possibly your man misinterpreted a scam of the Sheremetev family and the only place the depots were ever intended to be was in the pockets of the Sheremetevs.\" Millerov shrugged. \"At this point we'll likely never know for sure and it doesn't matter anyway, because we are sitting here in Muscovite territory. They aren't going to apologize. They're going to deny and the depot isn't here. They'll demand reparations. Granted, the Truce of Deulino expired in July of 1633. His Majesty has refused to give up his claim on the Russian throne and Russia hasn't given up its claim to Czernih\u00f3w or Smolensk. So legally Poland is at war with Russia, but up to now it's been a pretty phony war. Little fighting and even less talking. The war is going to get a lot more real now, one way or the other. So it would be best to win it. Yes?\"\n\nEliasz Stravinsky nodded. \"If we go back now, we'll look like idiots. Not very good for the career, that.\"\n\nJanusz Radziwill nodded almost against his will. He was still convinced that the reports had been accurate. The Muscovites were planning to take Smolensk and much of Lithuania, just like they had tried in that other history. But probably\u2014as had happened before\u2014corruption in their ranks had interfered. Still, the Cossack was right. It didn't really matter now.\n**Chapter 52**\n\n\"Men coming in,\" the scout said as he rode up to the general.\n\n\"That'll be the mercenaries from Rzhev,\" General Izmailov said, then looked at Tim. \"Take word the column is to halt. Officer's Call at the front.\"\n\n\"Halt the column. Officer's Call, sir, at the leading unit,\" Tim told the commander of each unit as he rode down the line.\n\nIt was the third day of marching toward Rzhev. And this halt would probably cost them two miles. When he got back to the front, Tim saw that General Izmailov was speaking to the sergeant leading the mercenaries who had sent the riders to inform Moscow of the invasion.\n\n\"So tell me, Sergeant,\" General Izmailov was asking, \"why did you abandon your post?\"\n\n\"What post, General? We were ordered to Rzhev to guard a supply depot. When we got there, there was no supply depot. No quarters and no pay. My people were living in tents outside Rzhev. You can't guard what isn't there, sir, and we were never assigned to guard Rzhev.\" The sergeant pulled a set of orders out of his pack and handed them to General Izmailov.\n\nGeneral Izmailov looked over the orders and snorted. Then he handed them to Tim and went on to the next question. \"Did you keep in contact with the invading force?\"\n\nThe burly sergeant shook his head. \"No. We didn't see any more of them and I don't have the men to spare.\"\n\n\"Are the invaders coming this way? Heading to Tver? Did they even continue on past Rzhev, or did they stop there?\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir,\" Sergeant Hampstead admitted.\n\nTim read over the orders and information in the packet, and stopped. _Ivan Petrovich Sheremetev._ Well, that explained why the foreign mercenaries had been sent off to guard a nonexistent supply depot. It was almost funny. The lesser Sheremetev's greed had, for once, worked to Russia's benefit. If the mercenaries hadn't been in Rzhev, the Poles might have bypassed the place altogether and headed straight for Tver. With no warning to the Kremlin until they had already taken Tver.\n\nGeneral Izmailov turned to a discussion with the dirigible's pilot. After discussing the dirigible and its capabilities for a few minutes, the pilot, \"Nick\" Ivanovich, said, \"General, if we loose the tether, we can see more. I can usually get twenty miles an hour when I use the engines, assuming the engines work. And if the wind isn't bad when I get up there.\"\n\n\"When they work?\" Izmailov looked dubious. \" _When_ they work?\"\n\n\"They do . . . mostly,\" Nick said. \"The engines aren't really the problem. Sometimes there is considerable leakage in the steam lines. If the steam isn't leaking too bad, I can stay up for ten hours or so. If everything goes right, I can get from here to Rzhev and back before dark.\"\n\nIzmailov thought for a few moments. \"All right. We'll try it. But at the least problem abort the mission and get back here.\" He turned back to the mercenary. \"Sergeant, your officers were delayed in Moscow but we expect them to be joining us in a day or so. You and your men are to fall in at the end of the column as we pass.\"\n\n* * *\n\nEverything didn't go right for Nick Ivanovich. The problem was the winds. They were southerly and fairly strong at five thousand feet. Weaker, but still southerly, at five hundred. _Testbed_ didn't have a compressor; it couldn't lift the weight. So it couldn't pump hydrogen out of the bladders and then get it back. Once the hydrogen was gone, it was gone. It did have a couple of hydrogen tanks so it could go up and down a little bit.\n\nNick ended up using more fuel than expected to keep on course. There was some steam leakage but it wasn't too bad. All of which meant that he _might_ have made it to Rzhev and back. Or, if he went all the way to Rzhev, he might run out of fuel or water before he could get back.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I was forced to abort, General.\" Nick shook his head. \"Wind was awful and kept blowing me off course. But I did get a bit better than halfway and didn't see the first sign of the Poles. No advancing troops, not in this direction.\"\n\nIzmailov turned to the mercenary sergeant. \"Did your scouts see the entire army? This so-called ten-thousand-man army?\"\n\n\"No,\" Hampstead admitted. \"My scouts saw the leading elements. About three thousand men. And that's still more than my five hundred could face with any hope of victory.\"\n\n\"How do you know it was the leading elements? Not the whole force?\"\n\n\"The formation was spread out like a screening element. Why put a screening element out when there's nothing to screen?\"\n\nThe answer to that seemed obvious to Tim\u2014to hide the fact that that was all you had. To bluff. Still, the sergeant's point about the size of his force was well taken. Why bluff against a force of only five hundred men? Tim could think of two reasons. If the attacking force didn't know how big the force in Rzhev was, they might try a bluff to get a force of a thousand or fifteen hundred to retreat and avoid a battle against an entrenched opponent. Two-to-one odds aren't that great when the enemy is behind walls.\n\nOr it could be that the bluff\u2014if it was a bluff\u2014was intended not for the sergeant but for . . . well, them. The relieving force. Tim looked over at the wagons holding _Testbed_ and smiled.\n\nGeneral Izmailov was shaking his head. \"There are a lot of reasons why you might arrange your troops in a pattern that will, at first sight, look like a screen . . .\"\n\n* * *\n\nThough General Izmailov didn't know it, the commander of the Polish invaders had not, in fact, formed his force into a screen. He had split his force into three columns of a thousand men to facilitate gleaning. The scout had spotted the center column and swung wide around it which had taken him right into the second column. He had assumed that the two columns were the ends of a large screening element but hadn't checked.\n\n* * *\n\nThere were four wagons in the dirigible contingent. One carried the dirigible while on the march\u2014or served as a moving anchor for it, rather. The dirigible floated about fifteen feet above the wagon and was cranked down to ground level and tied down with spikes driven into the ground at night or in bad weather. That wagon also carried the pump that was used to compress hydrogen gas for the canisters. Another wagon carried equipment and materials for the production of hydrogen gas. A third carried equipment for field repairs and the fourth carried the repair crew. After the aborted trip, they spent two days worth of breaks on the march doing maintenance before they felt safe with the thing untethered again. General Izmailov was not pleased.\n\n\"I'm sorry, General,\" Nick Ivanovich said. \"But there is a reason we call the dirigible ' _Testbed_.' It's an experimental design to test concepts in aviation.\" The term \"aviation\" was English but Izmailov was familiar with it by now. \"To the best of our knowledge, nothing quite like it has ever existed in this or any other history. The engines are handmade by Russian craftsman, as are the lift bladders, the wings.\"\n\nNick hid a grin. The designer would hate him calling the control surfaces \"wings.\" They weren't designed to provide lift, but control. In fact, they provided a bit of both. The \"wings\" acted as elevators at the tail of the dirigible. More were located between the gondola and the motors. They didn't provide much lift, but by pointing the dirigible's nose up or down, he could gain or lose a little altitude without having to dump ballast or gas. Or use the emergency tanks to refill the lift bladders.\n\n\"They were well made, but by people who had no way to do more than guess about the stresses they would face. It's steam powered and if they had steam powered dirigibles up-time, we haven't heard about it. That's why they built it\u2014to see.\"\n\n\"So why don't we have an improved version or one of the airplanes that the up-timers have?\" Izmailov sounded impatient and gruff.\n\n\"Engines, sir. Ours are both heavy and weak They wouldn't get a heavier-than-air craft off the ground. There is one engine in Russia that might lift an airplane off the ground. That engine is in the car Bernie Zeppi brought to Russia.\" This wasn't entirely true, as Nick well knew. The engines they had built for the dirigible would get an airplane off the ground just fine. It was the added weight of the water, the boiler and the steam recovery that had so far made down-time-built steam-powered heavier-than-air craft impossible. Without the recovery system, a steam powered aircraft would work fine for a few minutes before the water was all used up. Water weighed a lot.\n\n\"So I will have the intelligence you can gather from your _Testbed_ only when and if everything goes right? If nothing breaks on your toy and the weather is just right?\" The general glared, then visibly shook himself. \"All right, Captain. That's all.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe cavalry were equally unimpressed with the intelligence gathered by Nick. And more than a few of the cavalry were resentful. Scouting was a part of their function and, as far as they were concerned, the infantry was looking to take away the other part. They rode out almost gaily for the two days the dirigible was being repaired.\n\nBut, just like the dirigible, they found no traces of the enemy.\n**Chapter 53**\n\n**_July 1634_**\n\nSixty miles as the crow flies from Moscow, Nick was ready to try again. Mostly because they were launching from closer to Rzhev, but also because it was, luckily, a still, calm day. Nick made it to within five miles of Rzhev. At five thousand feet, he feathered the engines so he would have a stable platform, pulled out his telescope and started counting outhouses and camp fires.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Three thousand men, General, more or less. They haven't burned the town, but it's not big enough to hold them all. They have built a camp next to it. No walls, not much in the way of defensive fortifications.\"\n\n\"Did they see you?\"\n\nNick shrugged. \"I can't say for sure. _Testbed_ is big and quite visible, but I was five miles away and a mile in the air. It depends on where they were looking. No one took a shot at me and they didn't seem disturbed when I looked at the town.\"\n\n\"Three thousand? Is that all?\" Colonel Ivan Khilkov said. \"General, we've got almost that many cavalry. Send us ahead; we'll ride them into the ground.\" The colonel was not a fan of the new innovations in warfare provided either by Western Europe or the up-timers.\n\nGeneral Izmailov hesitated and Nick knew why. Ivan Khilkov was young, but from a very old family. A very well-connected family, since one of his relatives was Patriarch Filaret's chamberlain. The general could deny him once or twice, but if he did it too many times, Izmailov would find himself relieved of command and his career ended. Nick prudently kept his mouth shut.\n\n* * *\n\nFour days later, General Izmailov could no longer say no. Colonel Khilkov had sent mounted scouts directly to Rzhev.\n\n\"They are fortifying the town, albeit slowly. By the time the full column reaches Rzhev, the town will be fully fortified,\" Khilkov said. Then he sniffed. \"Send us, General. We can get there quicker than this\"\u2014Khilkov waved an arm at the wagons\u2014\"torturous mess. The cavalry can get there in two days. By the time you can get all this there, we'll have taken the town.\"\n\n\"The _Streltzi_ may not move as fast as cavalry, but they are equipped with the new rifles.\" Then Colonel Petrov stopped and grimaced. Although the _Streltzi_ were supposed to be the first to get the new rifles, Colonel Khilkov was wearing a fine leather bandolier with twenty loaded chambers across his chest. And it wasn't just for show. Colonel Petrov knew that Colonel Khilkov had his own AK3, as did quite a number of his men. In fact, the AK3's that had been sold on the black market were one reason it had taken so long before they were finally issued to the Moscow _Streltzi_.\n\nColonel Khilkov casually patted his bandolier. \"I'm familiar with the AK3, and quite impressed by them. But it is the shock of cavalry that wins battles. Not footmen plinking from behind a wooden wall.\"\n\nThere was no way to avoid it, Izmailov knew. Against his better judgment\u2014and with a tiny bit of worry for his future\u2014he agreed. He might very well be ruined either way. If Khilkov won, he'd look bad. If Khilkov lost, his angry relatives would blame Izmailov.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Khilkov and his forces are about ten miles from Rzhev, sir,\" Nick Ivanovich reported.\n\n\"Very well,\" Izmailov said. \"Do whatever it is you need to do with your . . . _Testbed_. If he's that close, you should see the battle tomorrow.\" The general paused. \"Take Lieutenant Lebedev with you.\" When Nikita started to object, General Izmailov held up his hand. \"There's no choice in this. He is from a good family. If things go well tomorrow, it won't matter\u2014but if they don't, you and I will need his report.\"\n\nBy this time, the main column was only about forty miles from Rzhev by air. Which, unfortunately, meant quite a few more miles on foot. Fortunately, it was short-hop range for _Testbed_. Nick spent the rest of the day doing maintenance and preparing for the overloaded trip to Rzhev. The general consensus was that tomorrow he would have a ringside seat for a glorious feat of victory by Russian cavalry. General Izmailov clearly wasn't so sure, and Nick shared his doubt. There were probably a few others who were less than sanguine about the outcome. Sergeant Hampstead was one of them; his commanding officer, Captain Boyce, who had joined them on the march was another.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I'm going with you.\"\n\nNick Ivanovich looked over at the young lieutenant. \"So General Izmailov told me. That's why I'm pulling two of the four hydrogen tanks. We'll also be taking less ballast water and less fuel.\" Nick wasn't happy with the situation but he rather liked Tim, one of the more innovative young officers in the Russian army. And young was the word. Tim might be seventeen, but he looked closer to fourteen. \"Bernie Zeppi said once that the glamour of flying would get to almost anybody. But it's _dangerous_ up there. A dirigible is a balancing act. Look there . . .\" He pointed. \"Those are the lift bladders. They pull the dirigible up but not by a constant amount. There are several factors involved. At night, for instance, the hydrogen gets cooler and loses some buoyancy. Flying one of these things is more like horsemanship than you'd think.\"\n\n\"A matter of feel and instinct, rather than science, you're saying.\"\n\n\"Right. If you gauge it wrong, you're likely to crash. Fortunately, you'll probably have more time to react than you would falling off a horse. On the other hand, _Testbed_ here has as much surface area as a three-masted schooner has sails.\" _Well, not really,_ Nick admitted silently, _but it doesn't have a hull in the water holding it in place either._ \"So a sudden change in the wind and we can be a hundred yards away from where we want to be before I can even start to compensate. If we are facing into the wind, or close to it, the engines are enough to move us through the air. But if the wind is from the sides, the wind wins. If it rains on this thing, the weight of the water means even with all the ballast overboard and the bladders at capacity, we don't have enough lift. We had to drop the radiator more than once in tests at the Dacha and the aerodrome where they are working on the big one. We haven't had to drop the engines or the boiler yet but it's rigged to be able to.\"\n\nNick went on to explain about the various controls. The fifty-pound weight that didn't seem like that much till you realized that it could be moved from the tip to the tail of the dirigible to adjust its balance and angle of attack. That not only the wings, but the engines at their ends rotated as much as thirty degrees, to provide last minute thrust up or down for takeoff and landing. Especially landing. The steam engines could reverse thrust with the turning of a lever, so _Testbed_ didn't need variable pitch propellers. It was all a bit intimidating.\n**Chapter 54**\n\n**_Rshev, on the Volga River_**\n\n\"It is a beautiful sight,\" Tim said. \"Banners flying . . .\" He paused a moment, then sighed. \"A beautiful sight, noble and glorious. But at the Kremlin in the war games they treated pike units as fortified. Not easy to overrun. Colonel Khilkov didn't think much of the war games.\" In a way, this was like one of those war games, an eagle's eye view. Tim had played a lot of them, and suddenly, as he watched, he could see the little model units on the field below. He remembered one of the games\u2014an unofficial game\u2014when one of his fellow students had had a bit too much to drink and ordered cavalry to attack undispersed pike units. You were supposed to hit them with cannon first, to break up their formation. And he remembered those cavalry pieces being removed from the board. Ivan had stood, held up one arm, wobbled a bit, lifted the arm again and proclaimed \"But, I died bravely!\" They had all laughed. Suddenly it didn't seem funny at all.\n\n\"Colonel Khilkov thinks the Poles will break when faced with a cavalry charge . . . and General Izmailov didn't seem to agree.\"\n\n\"You're sounding a bit, ah, concerned there, Tim.\" Nick peered though his telescope toward the Polish forces.\n\nTim nodded. \"Colonel Khilkov is . . . a bit difficult.\"\n\nThe Polish forces didn't flee. Three thousand Russian cavalry faced a wall of about two thousand Polish infantry, armed with pikes and muskets, as well as the Polish cavalry. The infantry stood in ranks and waited. Then they lowered their pikes and the Russian cavalry charge ran headlong into a porcupine made of men. Then the Poles fired. It was unlikely that the volley killed many men, but it was enough to shatter the Russian formation.\n\nThen it was the Polish cavalry's turn. They were outnumbered but they were fighting a scattered unit. Colonel Khilkov tried to rally his men and almost managed it. But the Polish infantry had slowly\u2014as infantry must\u2014advanced while the Polish cavalry had been cutting its way through the Russians. Once their own cavalry was mostly clear, the Polish infantry opened fire again.\n\n\"It's all over, mostly,\" Nick said. There was, it seemed to Tim, a coldness in Nick's voice he had not noticed before. \"We'd better head back to General Izmailov and tell him.\"\n\nTim nodded, tears blurring his sight. He kept seeing little cavalry units being picked up off a playing board while he looked at the clumps of bodies on the field. It was too far to distinguish individuals but he knew some of the cavalrymen whose bodies made up those clumps. \"The general's not going to be happy.\"\n\nThe little boyars with their fine horses had left the field, those that still could. Routed by soldiers who worked for pay, not glory.\n\n* * *\n\nBy the time they got back to the column, it was crossing the Volga at Staritsa and Tim had himself well under control. He made his report and the general discussed the way the battle had gone. Whoever had commanded the Poles had kept his Cossacks in reserve. Which was a bit of a surprise; since probably the greatest Russian weakness was in tactical mobility. Of course, a Russian army that was mostly cavalry was unusual, too.\n\n\"I am concerned about the loss of the cavalry,\" General Izmailov echoed Tim's thoughts. \"The cavalry units were most of what tactical mobility we had. We can't afford to be caught away from the Volga. We'll need it for supply. It's a hundred miles along the Volga from Tver to Rzhev. I am going to take the main force straight to Rzhev. But I am sending Captain Boyce and his people along the river to grab up every boat they can find.\"\n\nTim said, \"But the supplies are coming up by steam barge, aren't they?\"\n\n\"They're supposed to be,\" General Izmailov said. \"But the latest steam barge is overdue. The steam barges don't work that consistently yet. So I want regular boats to fill in the gaps. I also want to deny them to the Poles. So, you're going with Captain Boyce and his troops, Tim. I don't really think they'll run again, but better safe than sorry.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. What do I do if they do run?\"\n\n\"They won't. That's why you're going. I'm sending a squad of _Streltzi_ with you, but they are just to keep you safe. Captain Boyce knows that if his company fails in its mission, you'll take the _Streltzi_ and come tell me about it. Then he and his people won't get paid.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Tim said. \"I'm sure the steam barge will arrive soon.\"\n**Chapter 55**\n\n**_On the Volga River_**\n\n\"God cursed piece of crap!\" Shorty shouted as the pressure valve started screaming again.\n\nIvan couldn't really blame his brother. Besides, it wasn't really blasphemy, more a statement of fact. The new barge that they had received had a real pressure-relief valve. The pressure-relief valve blew a whistle when it let off excess steam. The whistle wasn't removable. Whenever the steam got a little strong, the thing started screaming at them like some sort of demented banshee and didn't stop till the steam pressure had dropped to what the builders in Murom thought was a good pressure. Which, they had told Ivan Mikhailovich, was about thirty pounds per square inch.\n\nWhen they had gotten to Murom they had been informed that they weren't going back to Moscow. They were instead taking supplies to \"our gallant troops,\" which meant they were going up the Volga almost all the way. Except, of course, the Volga wasn't their river. Never mind. It didn't matter. They had the most experience with steam barges. So they were given this brand new and improved steam barge with a donut boiler. Which wasn't quite a tube boiler, but better than a pot boiler since the chimney for the fire box went through the boiler. It had better, more finely worked, cylinders and pistons and worked at higher pressure, so used less fuel and went faster. It had two propellers, one on either side. What a glory of Russian engineering!\n\nCrap!\n\nThere had been four explosions of steam barges since Ivan and Pavel Mikhailovich had taken out the first one. Four out of the thirteen barges that had been launched. Each and every explosion had been blamed on the barge's engineer over-pressuring the boiler. Maybe that was the cause. The engineers weren't here to argue the point. The experts at the Dacha and Murom hadn't actually said that a dumb peasant couldn't be trusted to manage the steam pressure, but the brand new release valve didn't have any sort of adjustment that the engineer on the barge could make.\n\nThey were going up an unfamiliar river in a brand new barge. So far this trip they had lost two seals on the right piston and run aground once.\n\n\"What is it this time, Shorty?\" Ivan shouted. He had to shout. The god-cursed pressure valve was still screaming. The passengers had retreated to the front of the barge.\n\n\"What?\" Shorty shouted back holding his hands over his ears. \"I think the release valve is getting looser. If we had the sort of head of steam we should need for it to go off like that, we'd be going twice as fast.\" Shorty banged the boiler with his wrench and it finally stopped screaming.\n\nIvan looked at the shore and at the water. This wasn't their river, but it looked to him like Shorty might be right. He looked for something to toss over the side to get a clearer notion of the speed of the current. Mostly they were carrying food. Barrels of beans and rye, flour, beets and even some freeze-dried fruit.\n\nUp front, there were four barrels of gunpowder, a box of one hundred chambers for the new AK3 rifles and another crate full of the rifles. There was also some lamp oil, but nothing that Ivan saw was trash that would float and tell him how fast the river was running. He watched the ripples off the bow and they didn't seem to be going that fast. \"I think you're right, Shorty.\"\n\nThe passengers were still at the front of the barge. Four boys, ensigns, and _deti boyars_ off to win glory, who had decided that going to battle by steam barge would be a lark.\n\nThe ensigns had changed their minds about that when they first experienced the pressure valve screech. By now they had decided that it was unsuitable for them to arrive at Rzhev on a boat since they were cavalry. However, there were no horses for them to buy. By now Dmitri Borisovich was discussing the advisability of arriving in Rzhev on cows.\n\n\"Cows are useful animals and holy in India or someplace like that. Surely it wouldn't diminish our dignity too much to arrive on milk cows,\" said Dmitri Borisovich in a voice that was an artful mix of wistful and jesting. He was the youngest and the friendliest of them. The others had started out superior and by now were making threats of dire consequences if Ivan and Pavel didn't magically get them to Rzhev.\n\n\"What is the problem with this scow?\" Mikhail Ivanovich, the eldest of the four, asked.\n\nIvan gritted his teeth. They were boyar's sons, and in at least one case that was probably literally so. Mikhail Ivanovich was probably the son of Ivan Corkiski, born on the wrong side of the blanket. So telling him to shut up and mind his own affairs while Ivan and Pavel saw to the boat wasn't advisable.\n\nIt only made it worse that they were mostly justified complaints.\n\n\"It's not their fault, Mikhail,\" said Dmitri Borisovich. \"They didn't build the thing.\"\n\n\"No, the Gorchakov clan built it. Holding the rights to everything to themselves, the Corkiski clan could have . . .\" Mikhail stopped at the glare one of the others was giving him.\n\nAlexsey Sergeyivich was a Gorchakov _deti boyar_ , which was why the four had been in Murom when word of the invasion had arrived. He had promised his friends that he'd be able to get them the new AK3 rifles. Which he had, indeed, accomplished.\n\nDmitri interrupted the stand-off with the comment, \"The barges are made by men. Men who are imperfect. Why should we expect that the barges would be perfect?\" Then, looking toward the shore, he said, wistfully, \"Still, there is that cow . . .\"\n\nAfter some more mutual glaring, the four passengers moved to the front of the barge, which was continuing its trip upriver. Albeit more slowly, it seemed.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Ivan, see this?\" Pavel said, pointing at a spring-loaded screw in the assemblage that led from the boiler to the pressure valve. \"I think it's gotten looser.\"\n\n\"Well, tighten it, Shorty!\"\n\n\"I'm not sure I should, Stinky. What if it breaks something?\"\n\n\"Don't call me Stinky. You may be right, it might break something. Or it might fix something. Look, here. See? There's a lever that's pushed on by that screw. I think it controls the pressure valve, but I'm just not sure.\"\n\n\"So I tighten it, right?\"\n\n\"Yes, but if we do we risk blowing up the boiler.\"\n\n\"I'm going to watch it for now, to see if it loosens any more.\"\n\nThey added more wood to the firebox and a few minutes later the pressure valve popped again and it started to scream.\n\n* * *\n\nMikhail Ivanovich had had enough. This was ridiculous. He stood quickly and marched back to the back of the barge. \"Give me that,\" he shouted, grabbing the wrench. He swung at the screaming whistle, and hit it. It dented, but kept screaming. He swung again and the whistle went flying off into the river.\n\nThe bargeman looked stunned. \"B-b-b\u2014\"\n\nMikhail cut him off. \"There, that's fixed.\" He handed the peasant the wrench and marched back to the front of the barge.\n\nWhat neither Mikhail nor Pavel knew, was that as the whistle bent before it broke, it had blocked the pressure valve from opening properly. Some steam still escaped, so it looked like the pressure valve was still working as it should.\n\nAfter thinking about it for a minute, and examining the damage, the best Pavel could tell was that the damage wasn't too severe, aside from the removing of the whistle. Pavel shrugged. At least they wouldn't be hearing that damned whistle anymore.\n\nHe threw some more wood on the fire.\n\n* * *\n\nThings were going much better now. They were making much better time. The steam pressure valve was constantly open, but doing its job. So it seemed.\n\nPavel checked the screw and it was looser, he was almost sure. He was considering tightening it, when it happened. The pressure in the boiler had been building gradually for several hours and the iron was not as strong or as well welded as it should have been. The seam broke and ripped loose, happening faster than the eye could possibly follow.\n\nPavel was cut in half by the jet of steam before he knew anything had happened. And the shattering boiler sent burning wood from the firebox and shrapnel from the boiler flying everywhere. The rest of the water in the boiler flashed into steam in an instant.\n\nIvan, Stinky, took a piece of shrapnel in the belly and went down screaming. Mikhail Ivanovich, who had been bragging that it was he who was responsible for their increased speed, was only slightly wounded by a piece of boiler that struck him in the arm, but was shocked and confused by the noise. More importantly, the same piece of boiler that struck Mikhail's arm bounced into a barrel of lamp oil, ripping it open and spilling the contents across the deck.\n\nFor fateful moments, as the lamp oil spread across the deck toward bits of burning wood, the survivors were held immobile in shock. Then, as the oil reached a burning shard, fire covered the front third of the barge. And that brought Dmitri and Alexsey out of their shock. Alexsey grabbed Mikhail Ivanovich from the deck and Dmitri went to try to rescue Ivan, who was still screaming.\n\nNeither of the rescuers was in time, for the flames breached one of the gunpowder barrels. And the newest, fastest, most technologically advanced riverboat in Russia ceased to exist.\n**Chapter 56**\n\n**_July 17, 1634_**\n\n\"Oh!\" Judy the Younger Wendell heaved a great sigh. \"She's beautiful.\"\n\nThe bride _was_ beautiful. Brandy Bates wore a flowing, white, angora\/wool gown with a Chinese silk veil. The veil was attached to a wreath of white roses mixed with baby's breath and myrtle leaves. The leaves were said to bring good luck to the marriage. Brandy carried a bouquet of more white roses, baby's breath, ivy and pale pink carnations.\n\n\"She's probably melting in that wool,\" Vicky Emerson muttered. \"God knows, I am.\"\n\nThe Barbie Consortium were bridesmaids at the wedding of the season. Wedding of the year, could be. And in spite of Vicky's every effort, the skirts were long and the dresses modest. Not her favorite look.\n\n\"Shh!\" Millicent hissed. \"She's almost here.\"\n\nThe wedding was being held in the formal garden of the _Residentz_ , the home and offices of Vladimir Gorchakov's Russian delegation. Father Kotov had pushed for the wedding to be held at St. Vasili's Russian Orthodox Church, but there were just too many people who needed to be invited. And most of them had shown up.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Brandy is just gorgeous.\" Tate Garrett, Vladimir's chef, wiped her eyes.\n\n\"Prince also,\" said Father Kotov's wife Kseniya. Her English was so heavily accented it was barely comprehensible, but given that the woman had only been in Grantville for three months Tate was impressed she spoke any English at all. She herself had only learned a handful of Russian terms and was still incapable of following any sentence spoken in the language.\n\nKseniya was right about the prince, too. Vladimir had suffered the indignity of Grantville's eclectic fashion mix\u2014with Russian tradition thrown in\u2014but somehow, magically, it had all come together in a cohesive whole. He wore a Russian style fur hat and cape and trousers that were so tight they might almost have been hosiery. The ceremony was nice, too . . . if a bit long and convoluted with the greater part of it in a language hardly anyone understood. The reception was more interesting.\n\nThe wedding cake Tate had worked on decorating for two days stood tall and gleaming in the center of a table, flanked by molded Russian Creams on each side. Every kitchen maid at the _Residentz_ had learned to make mints whether she wanted to or not, because there were literally thousands of them. Tate blessed Vladimir several times for choosing an afternoon reception. She might have had a nervous breakdown if she'd had to do a formal dinner for all these dignitaries. Instead, they'd set up an informal buffet. People were circulating freely, murmuring to one another about various things.\n\nTate began to relax. It was going well.\n\n* * *\n\n\"No, it's not that simple,\" Kseniya Kotova said. \"The czar can't make laws, not without the consent of the Assembly of the Land or at least the _Boyar_ _Duma_. It's not just that it would be unadvisable; he literally doesn't have the authority to change the law on his own.\"\n\nReverend Green waited for the translator to finish. Once he was done, Green frowned and spoke in English. \"So if he wanted to end serfdom, for instance, the _Duma_ would stop him?\"\n\nMost of the Russian delegation in Grantville was well-versed in English because England was Russia's biggest trading partner in the early seventeenth century. But not all of them were\u2014and, in any event, the English they knew was quite different from the version spoken by up-timers. So, they'd brought a number of translators with them.\n\nKseniya's husband had been chosen as their priest partly because he was fluent in English. With his help, she'd grown fairly adept in the language, so she thought she'd understood what Green had said. But since the third person present in room, Colonel Leontii Shuvalov, was one of the Russians who spoke almost no English, she waited until the translator was finished just to be sure.\n\nShe then glanced over at Shuvalov. Kseniya was by now fully aware of the up-timers' attitude toward serfdom, but this was not the place to discuss it. While she was still trying to figure out how to guide the conversation to a safer topic, the colonel spoke up. \"It probably wouldn't be the _Boyar_ _Duma_ , what you would call the royal council, that stopped him, but the Assembly of the Land. The ah, middle class I believe you call it. The great families have never been the ones pushing to limit the rights of departure.\"\n\nAgain, they waited for the translator. Once he was done, the American priest\u2014no, she thought he was called a pastor\u2014looked surprised.\n\n\"I would have thought they would want it most.\"\n\nKseniya understood that quite well. She waited for the translator to interpret for the colonel and then said: \"Yes, I know you would. You up-timers tend to simplify things.\" Kseniya was a bit annoyed at Reverend Green. \"It isn't a conflict between the evil lords and their suffering serfs. The great families can afford to . . . what is it you call it up-time . . . go head-hunting? Though, in the case of serfs, it's more back-hunting.\"\n\nReverend Green snorted.\n\n\"I'm not sure that Boyar Sheremetev would agree with you,\" Colonel Shuvalov said.\n\n\"Of course not.\" Kseniya regretted saying it as soon as it came out but the truth was she despised Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev though she had never met him. From all reports he was ill-tempered and not very good at dealing with the bureaus. Still, the news that the Smolensk war would have been a disaster had brought him back into politics. So she explained a bit more. \"Russia lacks labor, and the weather conditions that make it the next thing to impossible to work the land for half the year don't help. If the serfs were released from the land, the only people in Russia who could afford to hire the labor needed to run a farm would be the great families and the big monasteries.\"\n\n\"Don't forget the new innovations,\" Colonel Shuvalov pointed out. \"While there is truth in what you're saying, there is less of that truth now than there was before the Ring of Fire.\"\n\nKseniya hesitated. What she wanted to say was unsafe, more for her family than for her. But spending time in Grantville had made it harder to keep her mouth shut. \"It takes time to put those innovations into production, Colonel. Can you afford to lower your\u2014\" A quick glance at Reverend Green. \"\u2014tenants' rent?\"\n\nColonel Shuvalov grinned at her. It was a surprisingly friendly grin. \"Actually, yes. Though I will admit that it's only because Boyar Sheremetev has been quite generous with my family.\" Then the colonel turned back to Reverend Green and addressed him through the translator. \"Kseniya's father-in-law and I aren't really in the same position, not quite. We are both Russian officers. He a captain, I a colonel, but the larger difference is that aside from the lands granted me by the czar, Boyar Sheremetev provides additional support. So my financial position is a bit better than his and less likely to be swamped by changing economic tides.\"\n\n\"Speaking of the army, how are the negotiations with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth going?\" Kseniya asked.\n\n\"Negotiations?\" Reverend Green asked, after he got the translation. \"What are you negotiating with the PLC?\"\n\nNow Colonel Shuvalov did look shocked. \"Surely you knew! Poland and Russia are at war! We have been since the Truce of Deulino expired over a year ago. The negotiations are an attempt to prevent the shooting war from resuming.\" Then he looked back at Kseniya. \"Not well, when I left Russia. King Wladyslaw is insisting that he is the rightful czar.\" He snorted. \"And I believe the rightful king of Sweden, as well. Boyar Sheremetev is convinced that he, like we, has read the history of the other time Smolensk war. So he knows, probably, that it is unlikely that he can actually gain the throne. But considering the degree to which he trounced us in that other time, he seems to expect to receive the war indemnity without actually having to fight the war.\"\n\n\"How likely is he to trounce you this time if it comes to a shooting war?\" Reverend Green wanted to know.\n\n\"I wish I knew,\" the colonel said. \"The patriarch was sure that we would win before Prince Gorchakov sent his letter, and we might have been in a shooting war before now if Sigismund III had died this time around when he did in that other history. But he lasted six months more. Boyar Sheremetev was less convinced of our chances in a shooting war and remains so. At the same time, we have learned a lot from the Dacha and the Gun Shop. Even from those silly board games they are playing in the Moscow Kremlin now. Still, it will be better for all if we can reach a negotiated settlement.\"\n\nWhich was, Kseniya knew, the stance of the Sheremetevs and their supporters. None of them had any way of knowing it, but just then a young lieutenant named Timofeivich was reporting to his general in a place called Rzhev.\n**Chapter 57**\n\n**_August 1634_**\n\nTo supplement their rations, the _Streltzi_ with their new AK3's went hunting between villages. Russia was sparsely populated compared to the rest of Europe and there was quite a bit of game. Captain Boyce and his sergeant were impressed with the guns. When they asked Tim about it, he called on one of the _Streltzi_ to do a show-and-tell.\n\nDaniil Kinski set the butt of the AK3 on the ground and the tip of its barrel came not quite to his shoulder and Daniil Kinski was a short man. If any of them had been familiar with the up-time weaponry, they would have thought of the AK3 as the illegitimate child of a Kentucky long-rifle and a Winchester 73. Like the long-rifle, the AK3 was a flintlock, and like the Winchester it had a lever action. But the AK3 had a removable firing chamber. Daniil lifted the AK3 and showed them how the chamber was removed. He opened the lever action chamber lock and pulled out the chamber.\n\n\"The chamber, as you can see, is a steel case, two and a half inches long including the quarter inch lip that inserts into the bore of the barrel. Behind the lip, the front of the chamber is flat and supposed to fit flush to the bottom of the barrel. It doesn't always fit as flush as we'd like, so we made some leather gaskets.\" He pulled the gasket off the chamber and showed them. \"We still have the flash from the pan and the touch hole, but that's no worse than any flintlock.\"\n\nDaniil stuck the gasket back on the chamber, then opened the frizzen and tapped the touch hole of the chamber on the pan to prime it. He closed the frizzen, inserted the chamber in the rifle, then he pulled the lever up flush with the stock which pushed the back block forward, forcing the lip of the chamber into the barrel. Finally, he cocked, aimed, and fired.\n\n_Crack!_\n\nThen he opened the chamber lock, pulled the chamber out, stuck it in his pouch, primed the pan with a loaded chamber, inserted the loaded chamber with a gasket already on it into the AK3, closed the lock, aimed, and fired again.\n\n_Crack!_\n\nRelative to muzzle-loading a musket it was very fast. Plus, since both shots had been aimed, they had both hit the tree that was his target . . . some eighty yards away from where they were standing.\n\nDaniil pulled the second chamber from the AK3, then leaned the rifle against a tree while he showed them how to reload the chambers. Daniil filled the chamber with a measured amount of black powder then pulled out a lead cylinder. \"It doesn't use a round ball, it uses a Krackoff ball.\" Which, an up-time observer would note, had a certain resemblance to a Mini\u00e9 ball, in that it was a cylinder with one flat end and the other rounded. But it fit snugly into the chamber.\n\n\"Push down till the Krackoff ball is flush with or a little below the lip of the chamber,\" Daniil said. The chamber had an oddly-shaped back end and Daniil showed them how it fit into the back block of the chamber lock. It was designed to fit into the AK3 only in such a way that the touch hole lined up with the flint lock on the side of the rifle. \"It can be inserted into the rifle with your eyes closed and the touch hole will still line up,\" Daniil told them. It was an impressive demonstration.\n\n* * *\n\nA week later, while Tim and his crew were still collecting boats on the Volga, the Russian force surrounded Rzhev. In a way, General Izmailov was surprised. His force seriously outnumbered the forces in Rzhev and he had half-expected the commander of the Polish mercenary force to realize that and withdraw.\n\n* * *\n\nJanusz Radziwill had considered doing just exactly that. His officers had suggested it. However, Janusz was a young man who had already thrown the dice. If he retired from the game now, things could get really difficult at home. Besides, the ease with which they had dispatched the cavalry suggested that they could hold and break the Russians against their recently built ramparts. So he allowed General Izmailov to reach the town, hoping to bait him into to another rash attack.\n\nGeneral Izmailov didn't take the bait. Instead, he surrounded the Polish encampment and started fortifying, using the _golay golrod_ , the walking walls _._ Now it came down to a question of who would be reinforced first.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What are those things and what good are they?\" Tim looked up at the badly accented Russian. It was the sergeant from the mercenaries. Ivan\u2014no, John was the English form\u2014John Charles Hampstead. He must not have been near Moscow during the testing. The army had been encamped around Rzhev for about five days when they arrived.\n\nThe mercenaries of Captain Boyce's company had done a decent, if not spectacular job. \" _Golay golrod_. Walking walls, you might say, or walking forts.\"\n\nHampstead said, \"Fine. That's what they are. What good are they?\"\n\nA group of peasant draftees were pushing one of the _golay golrod_ into position. Tim pointed at them. \"They are made of heavy plywood. They let us build fortifications very quickly. In winter we can even put them on skis for ease of movement. Right now, of course, they're on wheels . . .\" Tim's voice trailed off. He thought a moment.\n\nIt was _heavy_ plywood. The panels were a good three inches thick. The wheels could even be turned a little bit. And that's what the workers were doing now. They were pushing the wall back and forth to maneuver it into a gap in the wall. Since the walls were a lot more likely to stop a bullet if it hit them at an angle, they were being set up at an angle to the city wall around Rzhev. Since the workers were filling in a gap in the wall, they were quite prudently staying behind the wall they were moving. Even if they had been in effective range of the Polish muskets\u2014which they weren't\u2014all the Poles would be able to see was the wall. Not that the workers seemed convinced of that. They were peasants, not soldiers of any sort. They weren't armed and weren't expected to fight, but were here to carry supplies, set up camp, and other support roles.\n\nTim realized that the workers were right. If they had been on the other side of the _golay golrod,_ they would have been shot at and, if unlucky, hit. But the way they were doing it they were, if not perfectly safe, close to it. There was a narrow gap, less than half a foot, between the bottom of the wall and the ground. But to hit a target that size with the kind of muskets Hampstead and his men had, would take a lucky shot at ten yards.\n\nThat's when the plan began to come together. Not all at once, but in pieces. Tim could see the walls being shoved, one in front of the other . . . making a partial wall between their present position and Rzhev. But how would they get back? More walls. It came together in his mind. A slowly shrinking siege wall. A tightening noose around Rzhev. As the noose got tighter, the dead zone between the siege walls and the city walls would get smaller. He forgot, almost, that this was real, not a war game played at the Kremlin. Forgot, almost, that he was the most junior of aides to the general. Almost . . . but not quite. So it was with great humility and trepidation that he approached General Izmailov.\n\n* * *\n\nThe general listened. Why not? It was a siege and he had nothing else to do at the moment except for smoothing over disputes of precedence or paperwork that his secretary could do better. After due consideration, he decided that it was the beginnings of a possibly very good plan. They would have to take into account that the _golay golrod_ were less than completely effective when hit face-on by enemy fire. So rather than a tightening noose, it would be more like a spiked collar with the spikes on the inside.\n\n* * *\n\nBack in Moscow, things were not going well. The same people who would have wanted General Izmailov's head for denying Colonel Khilhov the opportunity to rid Russia of the Polish invaders now wanted his head for \"ordering\" it. Calls for his removal were brought up in both the _Zemsky Sobor_ and the _Boyar_ _Duma._ Others were afraid of offending the Poles and bringing about a repeat of the events of the up-time Smolensk War by squandering resources. Still others pointed out that the size of the invasion had been grossly overestimated. The close to ten thousand men that General Izmailov had should be plenty. Between the three factions, they blocked any attempt to send reinforcements. And almost blocked resupply.\n**Chapter 58**\n\n_Crack!_\n\nJanusz Radziwill ducked behind the Rzhev city wall, cursing the Russian forces. He wasn't happy that the Russian guns could reach farther than his. He didn't like that the _golay golrod_ seemed to be being used in a brand new way. Most of all he detested the flying thing.\n\n\"I hate that cursed thing. Every time it's up there, it's watching every move we make and telling the Russkies just what we're doing.\"\n\nColonel Millerov looked up and nodded. \"I'm none too happy with it myself. I feel like I'm being watched every minute of the day. But\u2014\" He pointed. \"I'm just as worried about the walls they're pushing inwards. And what's going to happen if the Rus get here and get in before our reinforcements get here.\"\n\n\"Help should be on his way from Smolensk.\" The last messenger had arrived just days ago. He had to swim down the Volga at night and sneak up the bank. But he had reported that the Smolensk garrison was coming.\n\n\"They need to move faster,\" Millerov said. \"Once those forces get here, we'll have them between us and the relief. And there's no way out for them.\" He paused. \"If they get here in time, that is.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"General Izmailov, sir.\" Nick paused to think about his report for a moment. \"A force of about eight thousand men is approaching from the southwest. From Smolensk, as near as I can tell. They'll be here in a week.\"\n\nThe general looked grim. \"Well, we knew it was inevitable.\"\n\nHe began issuing orders. \"Tim, now that we've tightened the noose around Rzhev, we've got plenty of wall sections. We'll use them to build our own fortifications between us and the oncoming force. Arrange it.\"\n\nThat wasn't a good solution but it was the best he could do with what he had. One thing he didn't want to allow was a relief of the siege of Rzhev. Instead his force would be both besiegers and besieged.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" The young lieutenant\u2014who was looking older by the day\u2014took off toward the peasants and soldiers who were used to move the walls.\n\nWork on tightening the noose around Rzhev was halted while the Russians set about making their own defensive wall. To General Izmailov this was looking more and more like a carefully laid plan where someone had jumped the gun. Tim was right about the Volga, or at least he might be. If the Poles got a base on the upper Volga, they would be in a much better position to press Wladislaw's claim to the czar's throne. If the enemy got Rzhev and Tver and held them for a while, they could build up supplies and equipment to make a rapid advance by way of the Volga. They wouldn't need to take Moscow, just cut it off from the rest of Russia. Besides, if they held the Volga to Nizhny Novgorod, they held the mouth of the Muscovy River. Apparently, someone in Poland had realized that Moscow was a false key to Russia.\n\nIt was the rivers that gave someone control of Russia, not Moscow. Especially if the Poles got their own up-timer somewhere to make them steam-powered riverboats. Russia now had some steamboats running up the Volga bringing supplies. What they weren't bringing were reinforcements. Izmailov wondered if the people back in Moscow were crazy.\n\nMeanwhile, everyone was working to get a second wall up about fifty feet outside the first and to get all their supplies between the two walls. That would give them a corridor that would stretch from the river on one side of Rzhev to the river on the other side. Rzhev was located on both sides of the Volga, but a bluff on the north side of the river commanded the lower city on the south side. For now, Izmailov would cede the lower city to the Poles. He could take it back easily enough once they had the upper city in their hands. There had been a ferry between the two, but that was easily dealt with. The Volga here was a bit over a hundred yards wide, making it impossible to occupy both sides of the river without dividing his force. The good news was the volley guns and small cannons placed at either end of the corridor could prevent the Poles from resupplying Upper Rzhev by crossing the Volga. That same bluff gave the Russian guns an advantage when protecting their resupply.\n\n\"All right, Nick. From now on you base out of Staritsa. I want you well away from Cossack patrols.\" Starista was about thirty miles as the crow\u2014or _Testbed_ \u2014flew, a bit over fifty miles along the river. And it had enough defenses to keep _Testbed_ safe. \"Do you really think the blinker lamps will work in daylight?\"\n\n\"They should, General. The lamp on _Testbed_ is located in shadow, so as long as we stay out of the sun, you should be able to see the flashes. You have the grid map and we got a good enough look at their army to give a good read on their units. They have been designated A through K. We'll send an offset for the code wheels at the beginning and end of each message.\"\n\n\"What about us sending you messages?\"\n\n\"Should work about the same. Blink at us from a shaded spot.\" Nick said. \"What really worries me, General, is . . . well, they will know that we are telling you their locations. And we can't stay up all that long. They can just wait for us to leave, then move their units and attack where you're not expecting it.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Pity about that,\" Aleksander Korwin Gosiewski said. In general, Gosiewski was quite pleased with the way things had gone since his forces left Smolensk. He wouldn't have done what Janusz Radziwill had, but since Janusz had opened the way, Gosiewski was fairly sure that he was safe from the political repercussions. And if it increased the size and power of Lithuania within the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, that was all to the good.\n\n\"Our eight thousand and three thousand in Rzhev . . .\" He felt confident that he could rout the Russians. His force was a modern army, six thousand infantry, two thousand cavalry. \"But I would have liked to capture that balloon. I doubt it will return; I suspect the Rus commander has sent it away to keep it out of our hands.\"\n\nHe nodded to his subordinates. \"But it doesn't matter that much. There is a time for subtlety, gentlemen, and a time for more direct means. This is the latter.\"\n\n\"Sir!\" Colonel Bortnowski said.\n\n\"As soon as their balloon is out of sight, Colonel, you will take the German dragoons . . .\" Gosiewski continued with a list of units designated to attack the east downriver edge of the wall. \"We will hold here until the artillery has produced a breach in their _golay golrod_. You will then advance. Our situation is simple. Once we get within their outer wall, at any point, they are done and we can roll them up. The Russian soldiers don't have the stomach for a standup fight. They carry walls with them so they'll have something to hide behind. Take that away and they're like sheep among wolves.\"\n\nIt took another hour to work out all the various details, including a skirmish against the upriver edge of the wall to pull the defenders away from the planned breach point.\n**Chapter 59**\n\n\"General, the Poles are moving,\" Tim said as he entered the tent.\n\n\"What?\" the general had been taking a nap. He sat up on his cot. \"Their cannon?\"\n\n\"Not yet, sir.\"\n\n\"Very well. Give me ten minutes.\"\n\nBy the time General Izmailov got to the walls, the Russian corridor was acting like a disturbed ant bed. Izmailov didn't rush. He strolled. Exhibiting no hurry, he listened to reports as he went, stopped and greeted people. And, to an extent, the ant bed calmed. Actions became less frantic and more purposeful. When it was reported that the Polish cannon were moving into position, he quickened his pace and started giving orders.\n\n\"Get those guns in place!\" The small rifled cannon of the Russians were moved into position, set up and loaded behind sections of wall. Ropes were attached to those wall sections so that they could be quickly moved out of the way.\n\n\"We'll give it to them now, boys,\" General Izmailov shouted. \"Before they realize what hits them!\"\n\nThe order was given while the Polish cannon were still out of effective range. _Their_ effective range\u2014not the effective range of the rifled breech-loading Russian guns.\n\nThe men on the ropes strained and the walls moved out of the way.\n\n\"Aim them! Don't just point them randomly!\"\n\nThe gunners took a moment to refine their aim.\n\n\"Fire!\"\n\n_Boomcrack! Boomcrack! Boomcrack!_\n\nThe small cannons sounded like they couldn't make up their mind whether they were cannon or rifles. The rounds they fired were small, just under an inch across and three inches long. But they exited the Russian guns in a flat trajectory and hit very close to where their gunners aimed them. Two rounds struck the outer wagon of the Polish gun train. The third missed, but hit a wagon wheel which it shattered. Pointlessly, though, since the exploding powder wagons would have destroyed it a tenth of a second later anyway.\n\n* * *\n\nA Polish gunner lay on the ground, blown off his feet but otherwise uninjured, shaking his head less to clear it than in confusion. The Russian guns were half again out of a cannon's effective range. But even as he lay there, he heard another _boomcrack_ and the gun carriage of one of the six Polish nine-pound sakers was struck and damaged by another Russian round. The gunner, after due consideration, decided that where he was, was a rather good place to be. Much better than standing up next to the guns.\n\nAleksander Korwin Gosiewski was not so sanguine. In the midst of disaster, he saw what he wanted to see. The Russians had opened a breech in their wall to allow their cannons to fire. He decided that if he moved fast enough he could exploit the breach. He rapped out orders to Colonel Bortnowski and sent off the messenger. \"Attack now. Go for the breach. Charge, curse you! Charge!\"\n\nMuch against his better judgment, Colonel Bortnowski charged. In a manner of speaking: the charge of a pike unit is rather akin to the charge of a turtle. Slow and steady. Which may win the race and may even win a battle when it's charging another pike unit. But when charging a wall two hundred fifty yards away and when that wall is manned by troops with rifled chamber-loading AK3's that can be fired, have the chamber switched, then fired again several times, the charge of a pike unit becomes an organized form of suicide. Eventually, of course, the pikes broke. But not nearly soon enough. Their casualties were much worse than the casualties the Russian cavalry units had suffered just weeks before. Colonel Bortnowski was among the dead. They really should have used the Cossack cavalry, but it was in the wrong place.\n\nThe Polish force withdrew, but it was only temporary, as General Izmailov knew quite well.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Gentlemen, our situation is untenable as it stands,\" General Izmailov said. \"We must take Rzhev and soon. Tim, I want you to coordinate with the unit commanders, start tightening the collar again. Get us salients as close to the to the walls of Rzhev as you can . . .\"\n\nThe general described what he wanted and work began again. The plan was to get several points right up against the walls of Rzhev. That would still leave the problem of defending against a potential attack by the Polish relief force while using most of his force to breach the defenses of Rzhev. To attack effectively\u2014and just as important, quickly\u2014they would need overwhelming force against the troops occupying the town. To get that, they were going to have to virtually strip the outer _golay golrod_ of fighting men. And like any fortification, no matter how temporary or permanent, the walking walls needed to be manned be effective.\n\nTwo weeks later they were in position and as ready as they were going to get. At the closest point the inner _golay golrod_ was only twenty feet from the makeshift walls around Rzhev and there were five points where they were within fifty feet.\n\n* * *\n\nNick gave a bit more steam to the right side engine to turn _Testbed_ left. The winds were gusty. He had gotten word a week before that they would be making the attack on Rzhev today. His job was especially vital because to make it look real they had to know where the Polish forces were attacking long before it happened. He looked out and noted the position of a Polish cavalry unit.\n\n_Rrrrriiiipppppp!_\n\nNick looked up and swore.\n\nThe gas bladders on _Testbed_ were made of goldbeater skin. Those were made from the outer membranes of the intestines of large animals, usually though not always calves. Goldsmiths used them to beat out gold leaf. For goldbeater skin, the intestines were cut open and glued together a couple of layers thick. The sheets of goldbeater skin were mostly self-adhesive and formed into short, fat sausage shapes rather than round balloons. It had never occurred to anyone to wonder what would happen if you applied steam.\n\nGranted, by the time the steam reached the steam bladder it had cooled quite a bit. On the other hand, the steam bladder on _Testbed_ had by now been slow-cooking for several weeks. A little bit of extra steam pressure was all it took. Of course, it gave along the seams. As soon as the rip happened, the steam spread out still further and turned into mist, then started condensing onto the other gas bags in _Testbed_ , where it did comparatively little harm. But the steam cell was gone; its lift was gone.\n\nThe gondola lurched. Nick swore again and reached for a lever to angle the thrust that remained to him.\n\nThe steam bladder, when filled and functioning properly, provided about five hundred pounds of lift to _Testbed_. The semi-rigid airship had just gone from neutral buoyancy to five hundred pounds _negative_ buoyancy. Which didn't mean it dropped like a five-hundred-pound lead weight. It was more like a five-hundred-pound feather. The steam bladder was located three-quarters of the way to the front of _Testbed_ , just above the gondola, so naturally it nosed down. Which meant that the engines were pushing down as well. Airships dive like they do every other maneuver. Slowly. A similar disaster in an airplane would have given the pilot less than two minutes to fix the problem, as the plane nosed over and accelerated to over a hundred miles an hour straight down. Nick had a good five minutes before he would hit the ground.\n\nFirst, reverse thrust on the steam engines. Nick shifted a couple of levers. Then, angling the thrust\u2014he shifted more levers as he continued to lose altitude. Shift the trim weight. More work. He had to crank it back to the tail of _Testbed_. In doing these things, Nick lost about two thousand feet of altitude.\n\n* * *\n\n\"It's coming right at us!\" one man screamed.\n\nThe big balloon looked to the Polish troops on the ground like it was making a slow-motion dive-bombing run\u2014not that they had ever seen a dive-bombing run of any sort. The nose of _Testbed_ was pointing straight at them and it was billowing white smoke. Steam, actually, but they didn't know that.\n\n\"Fire, you bastards! Fire!\"\n\nChaos reigned for minutes. Some of the men decided to be elsewhere, but a surprising number stood their ground and started shooting.\n\n_Testbed_ was still out of what could reasonably be considered effective range of a seventeenth-century musket. At that range a seventeenth-century musket couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. But _Testbed_ was significantly bigger than the broad side of a barn. Even a big barn. Inevitably, it got hit several times. Bladders filled with hydrogen were struck by musket balls. And nothing much happened. To get hydrogen to explode takes three things, hydrogen, oxygen and a spark. The hydrogen and oxygen need to be mixed together fairly well to get any kind of significant flame. But the crucial issue here was the lack of a spark. The lead shot back from the muskets was indeed still quite hot, but not that hot. Besides, there was all that steam condensation on the bladders and the skin of _Testbed_.\n\n\"Nothing's happening! It's still coming!\"\n\nBy the time Nick had _Testbed_ leveled out, it had a couple of dozen holes poked in the skin and three of its four hydrogen bladders had been punctured. But it took a long time for the hydrogen to leak out of a balloon forty feet across. _Testbed_ continued on, as best anyone on the ground could tell, totally unaffected by the shots fired at it.\n\n* * *\n\nAs best anyone on the ground could tell.\n\n\"Stupid fools,\" Nick said. _Testbed_ was losing lifting gas and was already negatively buoyant. Further, it was not recovering any of the steam it was using to run the engines. So while Nick had hours of fuel left, he had five or ten minutes of water and when that ran out, he would lose power. Nick headed for base.\n\nHe didn't make it. He literally ran out of steam just over halfway there. Absent the engines that had been holding him up, he started to sink, fairly slowly, to the ground. Nose first.\n\n* * *\n\nBack at the battle, Gosiewski saw his opportunity but had some difficulty exploiting it. After the disastrous attack of the first day there wasn't a lot of enthusiasm for frontal attacks on the _golay golrod._ It took a while to get things organized.\n**Chapter 60**\n\nSergeant John Hampstead looked over at his captain. \"They'll be coming, sir. Now that the balloon is gone.\"\n\n\"I know.\" The captain nodded. \"But where?\"\n\nHampstead shrugged. \"Maybe on the left. There are some gaps on that side. Sure as hell, we can't be everywhere.\" Their unit had been left on the outer wall to stiffen the peasant levies which were unarmed, just there to make it look like the wall was manned. The peasants had sticks painted to look like rifles and muskets, because the Russian government wasn't keen on arming peasants. Armed peasants tended to turn into Cossacks or bandits. Not that there was much difference between the two.\n\nSo Sergeant Hampstead and Captain Boyce had been assigned to go to wherever the Poles attacked and shoot so that it looked like the whole wall was manned by armed troops.\n\nCaptain Boyce nodded again. \"It's as good a place as any, John. Start shifting the men.\" They could hear shooting from behind them. The Russians were in Rzhev and would be occupied for hours cleaning out the Polish troops in the town. If the outer wall was to hold, it would be them that held it.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Form the men just inside the wall! We're going to wait right there.\"\n\n\"What about the firing ports, Captain?\"\n\n\"I'm getting sneaky, John,\" Captain Boyce told his sergeant. \"As important as holding this part of the wall is, convincing the Poles that we are just one of the units manning them is just as important. We need to give them a reason why the other parts of the wall aren't shooting.\" Then he turned to the peasant levies. \"Who's in charge here?\"\n\nHaving identified the man, Boyce explained what he wanted. \"Tie ropes onto the _golay golrod._ When I give you the word I want you to pull these two sections apart. As quickly as you can. Then when I tell you, push them closed again.\"\n\nThen man nodded and started giving orders. It would give them a roughly twenty-foot front. \"John, two ranks only and keep the pike men in reserve. Have the men fire as the _golay golrod_ clear the breach. Then fall back as soon as they have fired. Reload and reform as the walls come back together.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIt didn't go like clockwork. Unless you were talking about a clock with a busted arrester gear.\n\n\"Open!\" The walls started coming back with dozens of men pulling each wall. The troops started firing. _Blam Blam, Blam Blam_ , and the walls retreated. And they did a credible job at first of retreating behind the _golay golrod_ but then things went awry. Some men kept going, others stopped too soon and the walls caught up and passed them, leaving them exposed to enemy fire. Almost no one had time to reload because they were too busy moving. Then there were the Polish troops\u2014who had been taking sniper fire from those walls for weeks. As best Boyce could tell, no one gave the order but the Polish formation went into a charge as the walls opened. They took casualties, lots of them, since Boyce's troops were firing from pointblank range. But the Poles saw the breach and ran right over their fallen to get to it.\n\nBoyce ordered the wall to close before it was all the way opened. But it wasn't soon enough. The walls didn't close all the way; they were blocked by Polish troops.\n\nBoyce on one side and Hampstead on the other, they struggled to reform the men and close the breach. They weren't alone. The Russian peasants, armed with whatever was handy, were right there with them.\n\n* * *\n\nIvan didn't really know why he'd been assigned to this wall section, or even why he'd been pulled away from his farm. But one thing he did know was that Polish forces loose in Russia were a bad thing. He'd been hearing the stories all his life, how the Poles had decimated his village and killed his grandfather.\n\nHe didn't have one of the fancy guns the soldiers had, but he did have an ax he used to cut wood for the walking wall. If nothing else, he and his peers could use their axes against the Poles. And they would, he knew. Nobody wanted the Poles in charge again. The boyars were bad enough.\n\nSo he stood in the shadow of the wall, waiting for the inevitable rush of men trying to get inside. Then he swung the ax, the blade flat because he didn't want it to get stuck in bone or armor. The Pole dropped to the ground and Ivan swung at the next one. Misha was swinging just as frequently. Some of the Poles got past, of course. An ax doesn't have much chance against a sword, a pike, or even a flintlock pistol.\n\nStill, they kept swinging.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Get a message to Izmailov,\" Boyce shouted across the breach. \"Send a man, now!\"\n\nHampstead grabbed the nearest man and sent him inside Rzhev. \"Tell the general we need more men. And we need them now, if he doesn't want the Poles up his backside!\"\n\nIn a sense, Boyce's trick had worked.\n\n* * *\n\nTo the Poles it did look like one more weird Russian maneuver using the _golay golrod_ , but their commander thought that this one had backfired. It was clearly poorly planned and not drilled nearly enough. At least, not at the place the Polish force had attacked. It might work better at other points along the line, but that didn't really matter. They had a breach and poured everything they could into it. The unsupported peasants at other places along the wall were not attacked. And the maneuvering to bring forces to the breach cost the Poles time.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Back to the walls,\" Izmailov roared. \"These pigs are well stuck.\"\n\nJanusz Radziwill was dead, and most of his officers. The remaining force inside Rzhev were rounded up and under guard. \"Back to the walls,\" Izmailov roared again. Tim gathered the men he'd been leading and headed back to the breach in Rzhev's walls.\n\n* * *\n\n\"There's nothing there but peasants and sticks,\" Gosiewski shouted. \"You're not turning back from peasants, are you?\"\n\nThe Polish forces pushed toward the breach again.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Here they come!\" Tim's voice cracked on \"come.\"\n\nBut it didn't matter that he was only seventeen. The men followed him readily. Nor were they the only group. Russian troops were turning over their prisoners to anyone handy and heading back to the walls. Unit cohesion ceased to exist. But by then most of the Poles in Rzhev were unarmed and most of the citizens of Rzhev weren't.\n\nSuddenly Tim stopped dead in his tracks. They had reached the outer wall but the Poles weren't actually coming at them. They were nowhere near the breach. The Poles were crossing in front of them, not preparing to attack. He looked around trying to make sense out of the confusion and chaos that was battle.\n\nRzhev had been retaken. The volley guns and cannon that had been preventing resupply were no longer needed in that role. They hadn't been moved in preparation for the battle because the general didn't want the Poles across the Volga making a dash to reinforce Rzhev while the assault was still going on. But now, what purpose were the volley guns serving? He turned to find a man with an AK3 near him.\n\n\"Can you hold here with what you have?\"\n\n\"I should be able to. Besides, more men are coming all the time. What you have in mind?\"\n\nWhat Tim had in mind was far above his authority. \"Never mind. You men! Stay here.\" Then Tim ran. By going inside the inner wall, he shortened the distance he had to travel considerably. It still took him ten minutes to reach the volley guns. And considerable shouting to get them to pull away the wall section. \"The general's orders! Bring the volley guns and follow me.\"\n\nOf course, they weren't the general's orders; they were Tim's orders. And if the general decided to make an issue of it, Tim was going to be in a great deal of trouble. But somewhere during the battle the career of Lieutenant Boris Lebedev had decreased in importance. What was vitally important was getting the volley guns where they were needed.\n\nTim stood on the volley gun platform, which was being pulled by two steppe ponies. It wasn't a grand gesture; he needed the height to see over the wall to locate the breach. \"That way!\" He pointed. \"Another hundred yards.\"\n\nTim and the gun crew were inside the inner walking wall. Just on the other side of it was a mob scene, packed with Poles slowly pushing back. The Russian defenders were spread along the wooden trench made by the two walls. Carefully, they lined up the volley guns at points where wall sections met.\n\nThat was when Tim realized the flaw in his magnificent plan. The _golay golrod_ were made up of wall sections that could be latched together. But the latches here and now were on the other side. They couldn't open the walls. They knew where the latches were; there was one near the top one and near the bottom. Tim cursed himself for a fool. \"We'll have to move the volley guns to where we control the walls.\" He climbed back up on the gun platform and looked over the wall again, almost getting shot for his trouble. \"Over there.\" He pointed back the way they'd come. \"Three wall sections.\"\n\nWhen they got to a section that the Russians mostly controlled, Tim used the volley gun platform and scaled the wall. This time he almost got chopped up by a Russian peasant with a bloody ax and covered with gore. \"Open the walls! Open the latches! Let the volley guns through!\" And, surprisingly enough, that's just what they did.\n\nThe Russian version of the volley gun was an outgrowth of the same technology used in the AK3. The plates were loaded with AK3 firing chambers and were ignited by a quick fuse. They were slower firing than the ones in the west, but Russia was still having trouble with primers. They had twenty-four barrels arranged in three rows of eight. If all went well, the preparatory work was done on the chamber plates before the battle started, so all that was needed to reload was to pull a chamber plate and replace it with another before lighting the fuse. They were cranked, but only for traversing.\n\nThe last Russian slipped from in front of the volley gun. The gunner lit the fuse and started cranking. _Crack Crack Crack Crack_ . . . twenty-four barrels in order. Then the gunner pulled the plate, inserted another and did it again. The gunners for the volley guns were big men. The plates weighed upwards of thirty pounds.\n\nThe volley guns wouldn't have been enough by themselves, but they took the pressure off the Russian troops long enough for a semblance of organization to occur. Unarmed peasants retreated to be replaced by armed _Streltzi_ carrying AK3's, and the weight of fire shifted. The battle for Rzhev was effectively over.\n**Chapter 61**\n\n\"Lieutenant, you are to report to the general's quarters.\"\n\nTwo weeks after the battle, things had stabilized. Rzhev was surrounded by three walls, one inside the other. The Rzhev wall that had been built in a somewhat haphazard manner by the Poles and the two layers of _golay golrod_ together constituted a fairly formidable defensive network. Starving the victorious Russians out would take time. Meanwhile, the walls were bolstered by sand bags and firing platforms. Neither Tim nor General Izmailov had yet had occasion to mention Tim's orders to the volley guns, given in the general's name. Tim had been starting to hope\u2014against his better judgment\u2014that the general was going to let the whole thing pass.\n\n\"What am I going to do with you, Lieutenant?\" General Izmailov sighed rather theatrically. \"I have been reading a translation of an up-time book on a French general who had an elegant solution for this situation. He was dealing with a general, not a lieutenant, who acted on his own authority. At their base, the situations are quite similar. Bonaparte's elegant solution was to give the general a medal to acknowledge his achievement.\" There was a short pause but Tim knew he was far from out of the woods.\n\nGeneral Izmailov continued, \"Then, to maintain good order and discipline in the army, he had the man shot for disobeying orders.\" General Izmailov paused again and waited. Tim remained silent.\n\n\"What do you think of Bonaparte's solution, Lieutenant? I could have you a medal by sunset.\"\n\nTim hesitated, looking for the right words. \"I can't say it appeals to me, sir. But I grant that the solution has a certain, ah, symmetry.\" He stopped. Tim really wanted, right then, to bring up the political consequences to the general should he find it necessary to execute a member of a family of such political prominence, even a minor member of a cadet branch. He didn't, though, partly because it would sound like a threat\u2014probably not a good tactic against someone like Izmailov\u2014but mostly because Tim understood that while what he had done was the right thing for that battle, it was the wrong thing for the army. He had sat in _Testbed_ and watched as Colonel Khilkov used his family position to destroy a couple of Russian cavalry regiments. He knew as well as General Izmailov that if word got out, his example would be used to justify every harebrained glory-hound for the next hundred years. Who knew how many people that would kill? Tim had known when he was doing it that it would cost him, but not how much.\n\n\"For political reasons I can't use Bonaparte's elegant symmetry. You will get neither the medal nor the firing squad. Those political reasons are only partly to do with your family.\" General Izmailov gave Tim a sardonic smile. \"I will take the credit for your brilliant move and it may save my life when I must explain to the _Boyar_ _Duma_ my acquiescence to Colonel Khilkov's less-than-brilliant actions. We will say that it was a contingency plan. You will get a promotion, then you will receive the worst jobs I can come up with for some time to come. You will accept those jobs without complaint! Understand me, Lieutenant. You deserve the medal you will never get, but you also deserve the firing squad that you won't face this time. Don't make the same mistake again.\"\n\n* * *\n\nTim was still doing latrine duty when Moscow finally decided to send reinforcements. At that point the ranking Polish officer withdrew his army. The Lithuanian magnate's campaign had not been sanctioned by either King Wladyslaw or the Sejm. Such private adventures by the great magnates of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth were not particularly unusual\u2014and if successful, got after-the-fact backing. But if they failed disastrously, the magnate could face severe repercussions. If nothing else, he'd be in such a weakened state that other great magnates\u2014they all maintained large private armies\u2014would be tempted to attack him.\n\nAs for Third Lieutenant Boris Timofeyevich Lebedev, he continued to receive unpleasant assignments for the next six months, much to the irritation of his father. But Tim never complained.\n**Chapter 62**\n\n**_September 1634_**\n\n\"So how was the wedding, Colonel?\" Boyar Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev asked.\n\n\"I found it quite interesting, sir,\" said Colonel Leontii Shuvalov. \"Though I will admit I was a bit disappointed to find that the Poles had held a war while I was gone and I wasn't invited.\"\n\n\"Rzhev made things much more difficult,\" Sheremetev said. \"Filaret is making noise about invading Poland again. And without Shein, we probably couldn't hold him back. Shein figures we are getting stronger, faster, so time is on our side for now. But he will switch back as soon as he figures we're ready.\" Sheremetev shook his head in disgust. \"None of them can see that Poland is not the real enemy. The real enemy is Gustav Adolf and his new USE. So tell me about the USE, Leontii.\"\n\nLeontii made his report. That the USE was rich and powerful and becoming more so every day was beyond question. He had seen several different kinds of airplanes. The largest of which was dwarfed by _Testbed_ , but the slowest of which made the balloon seem a snail by comparison. But the real danger was the factories, which turned out hundreds of items in the time it would take a craftsman to make just one.\n\nYet Russia had factories, too. \"While we are behind, we aren't that far behind. I took a steamer from Rybinsk, one of the ones that they were using to resupply Rzhev. I was amazed by the factories along the Volga.\"\n\nSheremetev grunted. \"As new items come out of the Dacha, Princess Natalia doles them out to her friends at court. And they start hiring workmen and setting up 'factories,' as they call them. They are merely workshops.\"\n\nLeontii looked at his patron questioningly and Sheremetev grunted again. \"Granted, they have a lot of serfs working in them except during planting and harvest. And I'll even grant that the czar's paper money has increased trade. But I don't trust it. All these changes. It's too much, too fast.\"\n\n\"As you say, my lord,\" Leontii said. \"But it's nothing compared to what they are doing in Germany.\" Leontii went on to acknowledge the corrupting influence of the up-timers, but pointed out that Vladimir and the Dacha were proving incredibly valuable and were probably essential. \"Sooner or later\u2014not even Poles are _that_ dumb\u2014King Wladyslaw or some of the magnates will recruit up-timers of their own. By the way, how are they taking the events at Rzhev?\"\n\n\"The _Sejm_ seems very upset at the outcome. More upset than cautioned, unfortunately. It must be our fault and we must have somehow cheated, they think.\" Sheremetev shrugged, acknowledging that they might have a point. \"Made a deal with the devil, something, anything, other than that they attacked us and we outfought them. They seem especially worried that we had such things as breech-loading cannon and that the walking forts proved so effective.\n\n\"It hasn't made things any easier on the diplomatic front. About the only thing keeping them from a full-scale invasion is Gustav Adolf's presence on their western border. The Truce of Altmark expires next year, and the way that Sweden and the USE have been going, Poland simply can't afford to be involved in a war with us when Gustav Adolf gets around to them. What concerns me is I don't see any particular reason for the Swede to stop at the Russian border.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThrough the fall and winter of 1634, the _Boyar_ _Duma_ debated. And talks with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth went nowhere. In the winter of 1634, Patriarch Filaret became ill and much of the heart went out of the faction that advocated an attack on Poland. Meanwhile more factories came on line. most of them using forced peasant labor. This upset the peasants because winter was their traditional light time. It also upset the great families because they couldn't hire the peasants without their landlords' permission.\n\nSince the Ring of Fire, the anti-serfdom movement in Russia had slowly grown from two directions, top down and bottom up, with the service nobility caught in the middle. The top down part was a mix of morality and self-interest. It was fairly small, because the top of the Russian pyramid was small. There were fourteen to twenty great families, depending on how you counted, and a similar number of really large monasteries. A few hundred people in the great families and no more than a few thousand in the monasteries. Still, they were the most powerful people in Russia.\n\nOn the other hand, there were over thirty thousand members of the service, or bureaucratic, nobility\u2014people whose livelihood depended on serf labor. And they were the people holding down the vital mid-level military and civilian posts. They were the tax collectors, the construction supervisors and the managers. In the Russian army, they were the captains and the colonels, but rarely the generals. It was the service nobility, bureaucrats and soldiers alike, that had kept Russia from collapsing into chaos during the Time of Troubles. They had stayed on the job and mostly out of politics, serving whichever czar was in power, and kept the wheels from coming completely off. They were generally nonpolitical, but threatening to take away their serfs would change that in a hurry. As had been shown in 1605, the last year when peasants leaving the land hadn't been forbidden.\n\nThen there were the serfs themselves, by far the largest proportion of the Russian population. While many, perhaps most, resented their status as serfs, few of them objected to the institution as such. It wasn't that they found the social order objectionable\u2014just their place in it. They ran to the wild east, they ran south to the Cossack lands, they even ran west into Poland, hoping for a better deal. What they didn't do was stand where they were and say \"This is wrong!\"\n\nIt was a subtle but important distinction. There was no Harriet Tubman sneaking back into the Moscow province to smuggle other serfs out to the Cossack territories where they could be free. No Russian Frederick Douglass standing proudly and articulately to decry not just his serfdom, but _all_ serfdom. At least, they hadn't done so before the Ring of Fire.\n\nThe Ring of Fire was changing all that, though it took a while for the change to take root. But . . . not that long a while. Rumors fly on the wings of eagles, they say. They fly even faster on wings made of mimeographed paper, and the more radically inclined of the boyar class could afford lots of paper. Russia might not have had its own Tom Paine, at least at first. But the writings of the original made their way into Russia and into Russian. And they resonated. Resonated like jungle drums, like liberty bells. Soon enough, Committees of Correspondence sprang up in a number of the larger cities and towns. Small ones, true, but they were able to begin articulating the rebellious thoughts and anger of Russian serfs.\n\nRussia was still not a country anyone would describe as a powder keg. The population was mostly illiterate and mostly rural\u2014and diffuse, at that. And while some elements of the upper classes were becoming radicalized, no one wanted a return to the Time of Troubles. No one wanted Polish troops flooding into Moscow again.\n\nThen there was Rzhev. In military terms, Rzhev wasn't very significant at all. But in emotional terms it was. In Rzhev Russia defeated the Poles. And the army that did it had a good number of serfs in it, with a lot of them involved in the fighting. In Rzhev, the Russians showed themselves to be technologically superior to the Poles. Rzhev brought a new feeling of confidence to Russia, and a great deal of political capital to the czar.\n\nPatriarch Filaret wanted to spend that capital invading Poland and retaking Smolensk. But Czar Mikhail Fedorovich was beginning to consider other ideas. He'd now had three years to read about the history of what would become the Russia of the Romanov dynasty in another universe. Three fairly easy years, too. Despite his formal prestige, no one really demanded much of the czar, not even his father, so he had plenty of time to think about what he'd learned.\n\nBy the end of the year 1634, he'd come to accept the condemnation spoken so many times and so harshly in the speeches of Mike Stearns, the USE's prime minister. Serfdom had to go. Or, sooner or later, just as it had in another world, it would bring down the Romanov dynasty. Czar Mikhail had no desire to see himself\u2014or even one of his descendants a century or two from now\u2014being shot along with his whole family in a cellar somewhere.\n\nIn that other universe, one of his descendants\u2014Czar Alexander II\u2014had attempted to reform serfdom. Had even succeeded, to a degree. Not enough and certainly not soon enough\u2014but that was no excuse for inaction on Mikhail's part. Alexander's attempt had happened in 1861, almost a quarter of a millennium in the future.\n\nTwo centuries and twenty-seven years was a long time. Still, it was best to get started. Not even Mikhail Romanov was that much of a procrastinator.\n**Part Five**\n\n**_The year 1635_**\n**Chapter 63**\n\n**_February 1635_**\n\nFedor read the newsletter again, his jaws tight.\n\n_In an unprecedented move, today Czar Mikhail decreed that \"Forbidden Years\" are now limited, with some qualifications. Anyone who wants to buy out and leave his current lord may do so, provided he is willing to move to Siberia and look for gold or other metals and resources that are now known to exist._\n\n**Treasure Maps For Sale Here! Up-time sources used! Mine for GOLD, SILVER, COPPER! Find OIL!**\n\nAngrily, he shoved the paper back at Stepen. \"And what are we going to use for labor now, Stepen? The czar has betrayed us!\"\n\n\"Shhh!\" Stepen hissed. \"You want to get us killed!\"\n\n\"I'm as loyal as any man,\" Fedor insisted, though more quietly. \"But that doesn't get the crops in. Without our serfs my family will starve . . . and so will yours.\"\n\nStepen thought that was overstating the case, but it was true that members of the service nobility, like himself and Fedor, needed their serfs. There was never enough labor. \"They claim that the new machines will take care of the labor problem,\" Stepen said, still trying to calm his friend.\n\n\"They claim! If we could get them. You know how long the waiting list is and you know the boyars will all have them before we even see one. Which is probably a good thing, because who knows if they will work?\"\n\nStepen considered bringing up the increase in pay, but he was very much afraid that Fedor would start yelling again. Fedor had already made his opinions on the new paper money quite clear, many times. And honestly, Stepen tended to agree with him. How could a piece of paper with printing on it have value? It just didn't make sense. Whenever he could, Stepen spent the paper as quickly as he could and saved the silver. He wasn't the only one. By this time a silver ruble, which nominally had the same value as a paper ruble, was buying three times as much. It didn't occur to Stepen that the new paper rubles were worth three-quarters as much as the silver rubles had been before the paper rubles were introduced. Silver rubles were disappearing into holes and hidden compartments all over Russia, in a classic example of Gresham's Law.\n\nStepen and Fedor had recently been transferred to Moscow to appointments within the Bureau of Roads, because the Bureau of Roads was expanding with the introduction of the Dacha scrapers. They had both gotten raises, but those raises hadn't been in the form of more lands as had been usual. The raise had been more of the new paper money.\n\nThey didn't see Pavel Borisovich sitting in the next cubicle with a friend.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Papa, have you heard about the new proclamation?\" Pavel asked Boris. \"I was having lunch with Petr Ivanovich over at the bureau of roads and a couple of the new hires were talking. They seemed pretty upset.\"\n\n\"Yes. I imagine they were.\"\n\n\"How bad is it?\" Pavel asked.\n\n\"It probably won't be too bad for us. We have new plows, a seeder, a reaper and a thresher. But it will ruin a lot of the lower nobility. How many are ruined depends on how many of the serfs can buy out and how many decide now is a good time to run.\" Serfs running away had been a major problem for years. They were often aided and abetted by the boyars and the church, who always needed more labor.\n\nRussia had had a well-developed bureaucracy for many years. What Russia hadn't had when it was developing that bureaucracy, though, was the money to pay the bureaucrats. So whether it was a clerk in Nizhny Novgorodi, a manager in the bureau of roads, the _Konyushenny Prikaz_ , or a cavalry trooper, most of the pay for his service was in the form of land granted on a semi-permanent basis by the czar.\n\nEven at this late date the knots of law and custom that turned a free man into a serf weren't quite absolute. If you could escape and stay gone for five years, you were free. And the government wouldn't hunt you; that was up to the person who held the land you were tied to. Also, in theory, there were times when you could buy your way out of your chains. In theory. The last thirty or so years had been \"Forbidden Years,\" during which even if you could come up with the cash, you weren't allowed to change your status.\n\nBoris continued. \"Politically, it's hard to say. The czar may gain enough from the high families and with the general population to offset what he's going to lose with the _dvoryane_ and _deti boyars._ \" Czar Mikhail had been, at least on the surface, quite clever in how he had implemented the new \"Limited Year,\" but Boris wasn't at all sure he had been clever enough.\n\n* * *\n\n\"It's a big step forward,\" Bernie Zeppi said. \"A really big step.\"\n\n\"It's a disaster,\" said Filip Pavlovich, Bernie's sometime tutor. \"The czar's gone mad. Labor, Bernie. There's not enough. There's never been enough. Look, Bernie. I know that serfdom is wrong. You've convinced me. You and Anya. But the service nobility will not stand for this.\"\n\n\"Freedom, Filip,\" Bernie said back. \"Why don't people get that people will work harder and produce more if they're doing it for themselves?\"\n\n\"Because it isn't true,\" Filip told him bluntly. \"Oh. People probably will work harder if they're paid. But not enough harder to make up for the cost of paying them. Besides, what is the service nobility going to pay them with?\"\n\nNatasha felt like burying her head in her hands. Or possibly screaming at the top of her lungs. Instead, she took a deep breath, and said, \"Gentlemen, this isn't a productive conversation. Can we get back on topic, please?\"\n\n\"It will make Czar Mikhail even more popular than the win at Rzhev,\" Anya pointed out.\n\nThe presence at the meeting of Bernie's former leman\u2014or, rather, Anya's ease at speaking in the meeting\u2014was an indication of just how much Bernie's presence had affected the Dacha. Bernie was blind to class and it was rubbing off. It had been rubbing off now for three years\u2014on Natasha herself most of all, she sometimes thought.\n\nAnya had started off as a cook's assistant and with help from Bernie had become the Dacha's household accountant. In the process she had become involved in the development of the EMCM, Electro-Mechanical Calculating Machine.\n\n\"Popular with whom?\" Filip asked. \"Serfs don't have weapons, unless you count an ax as a weapon. The service nobility does. And so does the _Streltzi_. And it's they who will be most affected. When your Czar Lincoln talked about limiting slavery, not abolishing it, it caused a revolution and that was in a country where only a third of it had slavery in the first place. In Russia, serfs are everywhere. I'm not saying serfdom is a good thing, Anya. But it's too soon to do this.\"\n\n\"More money for Vladimir,\" Bernie said. \"Reapers and threshers are going like hotcakes. What's weird to me is that you\u2014\" He pointed at Natasha. \"\u2014aren't freaking out about losing serfs. You've got all these lands to take care of.\"\n\n\"I,\" Natasha said, \"can afford to hire help. And people want to work for us, because we can afford to take a smaller cut, because we have more people. Most of the truly wealthy are the same way, you know. As is the church. We can make a deal, attract more of the labor force. It's the service nobility, people like Boris and Filip, who need the serfs tied to the land. That's what concerns Patriarch Filaret. Ill as he is, he counseled the czar against this move. And Czarina Evdokia is very, very worried. But the boyars and _Duma_ men are all for it. It will make it much easier for us to poach serfs from the service nobility. There's a lot of nervousness in Moscow right now.\"\n\n\"And it won't take much to start a firestorm,\" Filip said. \"It's not like we haven't had them before. Or wouldn't have them in the future. Remember Peter the Great. For that matter, remember 1917. That's why I said it's too soon, Bernie. There aren't enough plows and reapers yet to make much of a difference in overall production. And members of the service nobility like me mostly don't have them.\"\n\nAnya sighed. \"I understand your point, Filip. But already serfs are being put to work in factories. Rented out, or close enough to make no difference, to make their lord extra money. It will never be the right time! Slavery and serfdom don't just fade away. No oppression does. It takes people standing up and saying 'enough, no more!' And making it stick.\"\n\nNatasha knew that was true. Evdokia had discussed it with Mikhail. Bernie was wrong. It was probably true enough that people worked harder when they were working for themselves. And the evidence was pretty clear that societies without serfs were, over all, more productive than those with serfs. But that extra productivity didn't go into the pockets of the lord. It went to buy the former serf a new suit of clothes or an extra room of the house, maybe some toys for their kids. Which worked just fine for society as a whole, but very badly so far as the lord was concerned, since he now had to pay for labor that he used to get for nothing or at least a lot less.\n\nMeanwhile, Bernie was grinning. Natasha raised an eyebrow in question.\n\n\"It's just that it's the downtrodden middle-class getting squeezed between the rich liberals and the poor, just like back in the twentieth century.\"\n\nAnya shook her head. \"Yes, but your middle-class didn't keep slaves, Bernie.\"\n**Chapter 64**\n\n**_Grantville_**\n\n**_March 1635_**\n\n\"What's up, dude?\" Brandy asked. Calling Vladimir \"dude\" in her empty-headed surfer girl voice usually got a laugh and sometimes led to other things.\n\n\"Huh? What?\"\n\nBut not this time apparently. \"What's wrong, Vladimir?\"\n\nVlad sat down heavily. \"I'm worried. There's bad news from Moscow, but I'm not sure how bad it really is. Boris is being reticent. It could just be that he's busy I guess . . . but it could also be that he's distancing himself from the family. Father Gavril showed me some letters from his family which indicate that the _dvoriane_ in the military are badly upset with Czar Mikhail and increasingly concerned with foreign influences on him.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Kseniya, could you puh-leeze explain all this to me?\" Brandy ruffled her hair, looking like she was about to start tearing it out at the roots. \"What's going on in Moscow? Vladimir's worried sick about Natasha, and Natasha is worried sick about, well, everything. But at the same time, Natasha says that the income from the lands is fine, higher than ever. And from sales of the farm equipment. That's got to be helping.\"\n\nHome, Kseniya thought, was difficult to explain to an up-timer. They were so rich. They just had their brains in the wrong . . . no, that wasn't right . . . they had their brains in a _different_ place.\n\nShe held back the sigh, then said, \"In the last years . . . so many changes. It's hard to adjust to so many changes. You know, my father is _Streltzi_ , right?\"\n\nBrandy nodded.\n\n\" _Streltzi_ means shooter. Mostly we are city guards, but we also guard caravans and when war comes the _Streltzi_ are the infantry. But it is usually not war and being the city guards doesn't take up all of our time. So most _Streltzi_ have another job: merchant, baker, leatherworker or silversmith, something. My father is . . . like a sergeant major, but my family also owns a tannery. We're _Streltzi_ , but upper _Streltzi_. But, my father-in-law is _dvoriane._ The _dvoriane_ are court nobles and army officers, sometimes bureaucrats, depending on what job is assigned. In fact, my father-in-law is an officer in my father's regiment. But my father-in-law's family is not as wealthy as my family. They receive thirty-five rubles a year and a . . . I don't know a German word that fits _pomestie_. _Pomestie_ is land given, or perhaps loaned, to the _dvoriane_ as part, usually the larger part, of the payment for their service to the crown. The _dvoriane_ get to collect the rent on the _pomestie_. But while my father-in-law receives _pomestie_ lands enough to make him richer than my father, he doesn't have enough tenants, ah, serfs, for more than half the lands and you can't collect rent from serfs who aren't there because they ran off to work for a monastery or high boyar.\"\n\n\"Why do the serfs do that?\" Brandy asked. \"It seems it would just be trading one master for another. You would think that the small holders would be, ah, the good guys, here. That they would be the allies of other men, those who have even less.\"\n\n\"They can't afford to be,\" Kseniya insisted. \"Remember the expenses. They don't have labor-saving devices. They need the serfs.\"\n\n\"I bet there are a lot more of these small holders than there are high boyars and churchmen, aren't there?\" Kseniya nodded and Brandy thanked her and went off to do some thinking.\n\nShe remembered things said about the _dvoriane_ in other conversations. And a quote from somewhere: \"Never trust a banker.\" There was more to that quote, but she couldn't remember it. The thing was, the _dvoriane_ sort of felt like the bankers from the quote. People who would cover themselves first, last and always. Who wouldn't take sides, or would change sides as the wind shifted. Yes, she understood the predicament of the bureau men and soldiers of the service nobility. But that didn't make serfdom right. She also remembered that Boris was _dvoriane._ And that letters written to Natasha went through the Grantville Section.\n\nBrandy realized that Vladimir needed a way to get messages to Natasha that the Grantville Section wouldn't see. _A file baked in a cake._ Brandy giggled. _Everything old is new again._\n\n* * *\n\nSome days later, a serf named Yuri laid a bar of white-hot steel in the slot of a drop forge and waved. Another serf from his village pulled the lever and the hammer came down. The bar weighed fifteen pounds and the hammer, which had to be lifted by means of a crank, weighed over a ton. The force of the blow transmitted through the bar and the tongs hammered his arms. It was hard work. Not the sort of work Yuri enjoyed. It was hot and it was bloody dangerous. It wasn't the sort of job that Yuri would have chosen. But Yuri was a serf. He wasn't given a choice.\n\nIt was also, in Yuri's opinion, stupid. There were a lot of things that needed doing in the village before spring planting. Instead, he was here making extra money for the lord and he knew perfectly well that neither he nor anyone in the village would see a kopek's worth of the money. No. The money would go to the lord to pay the village's debt and there would be more fees to make sure that the village never got out of debt. He wasn't going to be able to buy off his ties to the land. He wasn't even working in his home village. The foundry was fifteen miles away from home and he was being charged rent as well as everything else. There are limits to all things and Yuri had just about reached his.\n\nSince he couldn't hope to buy out, he'd just have to run. He didn't want to, because it would stick the rest of the village with his debt. But he'd had enough. Yuri began to plan. He couldn't tell his fellow villagers what he was planning; they would report him rather than being stuck with his debt. He'd need food, an extra set of clothing, one of those gold-mining maps.\n\nYuri didn't particularly want to mine gold, but it would give him a direction to run to and even a reason for being on the road. Yuri pulled another bar from the fire and continued to plan.\n**Chapter 65**\n\n\"We need more reapers,\" Anya said.\n\n\"Well, we don't have them,\" Natasha told her. \"And we aren't going to have them before the harvest is in.\"\n\n\"What about renting yours out after you have your crops in? With the serfs that have headed for the gold fields, there are a lot of people, even some of the boyars, who still won't have their crops in by that time. We could probably rent them for near the cost of buying one and still not have enough to supply the demand.\"\n\nIt was a good plan. It probably would have worked except . . .\n\n* * *\n\nIt was mid-afternoon when Peter Boglonovich plotted his measurements. The thermometer was dropping and the barometer was rising; the winds were from the northwest and strong. The front had passed through and was on its way south. And Peter couldn't tell anyone. Peter had an excellent clock and a small wind-powered generator to power his equipment and provide some creature comforts. What he didn't have was a radio. He had maps\u2014good ones\u2014and he knew how to use them, having been trained at the Dacha. He received weather data to plot on those maps from other stations once a week and sent his data off with the same messenger. The messenger was due in two days and Peter figured that the cold front would be halfway to Moscow by then.\n\n\"What's the use of a weather station if it doesn't have a radio?\" Peter muttered. He knew the answer. He was up here to provide a plot, a record of weather conditions, that could be used to make the predictions more accurate when they got the radios installed and could do real-time prediction. Establishing a baseline was all well and good, but if Peter's calculations were right, real-time weather prediction was going to come too late. This storm was going to sweep over Russia, depositing sleet on fields and those crops that hadn't been harvested were going to get pounded.\n\n* * *\n\nIvan looked out at his fields and saw death. Death for crops under a sheet of ice and sleet. Death for his family this winter as they ran out of food. Ivan lived on a farm forty miles northeast of Moscow and the storm still raged, beating down the stalks and turning the ripe grain to mush. He wasn't the only one by any means. The storm ripped through Russia's heart, ruining a full quarter of the expected grain crop for the year\u2014and it could have been much worse.\n\nOn a farm thirty miles to the east of Ivan's, Misha went to the family altar, knelt down in front of the icons and thanked God and his ancestors that he had spent the money to use the reaper, in spite of his wife's complaint of his spendthrift ways. His crop was in the barn. All of the village crops were in the barn, safe from the storm.\n\nFor Misha the storm was good news. Amazingly good news. It meant that the price he could get for his crop would be considerably higher. Even after the taxes and tithes were paid, which would take more than half his crop, he would have grain to sell for the new paper rubles. Perhaps enough to pay off his debt, which would allow him to leave. At least if he promised to go to the gold fields.\n\nOther farms had been missed by the storm or hit only by the edges. Then there were the potato fields. It wasn't just the potatoes from the Ring of Fire. The patriarch and czar had both read the histories and put in a large order for potatoes with English merchants. It had taken a while, but the merchants had delivered. A ship load of potatoes had arrived in the spring of 1635.\n\nThe peasants who had been assigned to grow them had not been pleased. But with the government promising to buy the potatoes at a fixed price per pound, and threats about what would happen if they failed to follow instructions, they had grown them. The peasants were going to be displeased again. Fixed prices worked both ways.\n\nStill, it wasn't enough. Not with the number of peasants who had managed to buy out or simply run off. That move had delayed the harvest in a number of places and that delay had been crucial. It had destroyed millions of rubles worth of crops. The bureaucratic service nobility placed the blame for the disaster at the feet of the czar. And though they were unlikely to actually starve because of it, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them had been ruined.\n\n* * *\n\n\"There is grain aplenty in Poland. The storm missed them and they got their harvest in with little damage,\" Patriarch Filaret said. The Little Duma, Privy Council, was meeting to discuss the response to the storm and its effect on the price of grain.\n\n\"We don't have the money to buy Polish grain,\" Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev countered.\n\n\"After what they did to us during the Time of Troubles, they owe us a little grain and Rzhev showed we have the might to take it.\"\n\nMikhail wished he could be somewhere else. The meeting had been going on for hours, mostly in a deadlock between his father and his cousin. Sheremetev wanted to stop the contributions to Gustav Adolf and try for a closer alliance with Poland. The patriarch wanted to keep relations with Sweden good and coordinate with them in attacking Poland from two fronts at once. Mikhail was leaning toward his father's side, mostly, because he agreed with Sheremetev that Gustav Adolf was, in the long run, the greater danger. But to Mikhail that meant that Gustav Adolf was the one who needed to be wooed, not the one to attack.\n\nLet the Swedish king rule western Europe. He'd earned it. Russia would expand to the east, into territory that they already tacitly owned. A transcontinental railroad from Moscow to the Pacific would give Russia half a continent of growing room. In spite of his respect for the charismatic Emperor Gustav Adolf, Mikhail thought he would prefer to be remembered as a builder rather than a conqueror.\n\n\"Given the effects of the storm, we will have to, at least for now, curtail the shipments of grain to the Swedes. But General Shein will prepare the army for the possibility of action between our realm and Poland.\" Mikhail raised a hand as Sheremetev started to speak. \"Just in case.\"\n\nIf this were a story they would all shut up now that he had made his royal ruling. But, of course, they didn't shut up. They kept right on arguing back and forth for another hour. Eventually, after they had forgotten who had suggested it, they agreed on Mikhail's plan of action. Mikhail would have liked to be satisfied with that, but he wasn't. His power over the boyars and church were both getting weaker, not stronger, as time went on. When the meeting finally broke up, he happened to see Sheremetev's expression. It worried him.\n\n* * *\n\n_This was a disaster_ , Sheremetev thought as he left the chamber where the Little Duma met. War with Poland would be a disaster for both countries, no matter who won. It would be a disaster for the Sheremetev lands and for both nations, leaving them open to the ravages of the Swede. Russia needed Poland as a buffer against the west. It needed a Poland strong enough to fight off the threats from central and western Europe. And the patriarch was going to destroy that buffer even if he won. There was no other choice. _Filaret has to go_.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Natasha, you see Czarina Evdokia often, do you not?\" Boris asked.\n\nNatasha, hearing the tone of his voice, took a long look at him. Boris was always a bit pasty-faced, but these days he was dreadfully pale. And had dark circles under his eyes. Which, oddly for the current situation, almost made her laugh. He looked so much like Bernie's cartoon. \"Yes, I do, Boris. Why?\"\n\n\"I'm worried,\" Boris said. \"I know there's something going on. Something bad. But I'm excluded. The word is out that I'm too close to the Dacha to trust.\" He sighed. \"It's to be expected, of course. Nevertheless, I do hear rumors. One is that the _strelzi_ are angry, and are making alliances with a number of men in Moscow.\"\n\n\"What do you want me to tell Evdokia?\" Natasha asked.\n\n\"To be careful. Very careful. Even to get out of Moscow, if they can.\"\n**Chapter 66**\n\n**_September 1635_**\n\n\"Zeppi seems to think so, but our research has shown that you spend much more in fuel for moving the same weight with heavier than air craft,\" Gregorii Mikhailovich explained rather more fully than Colonel Shuvalov thought was really necessary.\n\n\"Zeppi?\" Lufti Pasha asked.\n\n\"A member of our staff hired from, ah, central Germany,\" Colonel Shuvalov said. The Ottoman sultan, Murad IV, insisted on maintaining the pretense that the Ring of Fire was a hoax and that up-timers didn't exist\u2014while he sent his agents everywhere to learn whatever they could from that nonexistent future lore.\n\n\"I understand.\" Lufti Pasha smiled at Colonel Shuvalov. Clearly a man who knew how to play the game. \"We will not be meeting him, I take it?\"\n\n\"I am afraid not,\" Colonel Shuvalov said. \"He is supervising an installation in Dedovsk.\"\n\nThe installation in question was a prototype telephone system, about which Bernie said he knew almost nothing and was skeptical it would succeed. He was not even there. The project was being carried out entirely by Russians working for Director Sheremetev, who was hoping to be able to dispense eventually with the up-time advisers; both of whom, for different reasons, were obstreperous.\n\nBut there was no reason to get into that with the Ottomans. Politely, the colonel gestured toward a corridor leading off from the salon. \"Now, if you will come this way, we will show you the chemistry labs, where we make dyes and medicines\u2014and if we can get better access to your naphtha, we will be making fuels and plastic materials.\"\n\nShuvalov took the visiting Turks off with him, discussing Russia selling them manufactured goods and buying oil and gold. The Turks seemed rather more willing to part with oil than with gold. Natasha thought that would change over time.\n\n* * *\n\n\"We have very little choice, Papa,\" Pavel said. \"A thousand AK3's to the Turks, due very soon, with more to follow. From what they're saying, a lot more.\"\n\nBoris nodded. He thought selling the new weapons to the Ottoman empire was probably short-sighted, but . . .\n\nIt was hard to say. The war raging between the USE and Poland could produce any number of outcomes. In some of those outcomes, having a well-armed Turkish neighbor could be to Russia's advantage.\n\nBesides, it was probably all a moot point. The AK3 was a simple weapon to make, when all was said and done. Selling one to the Ottoman Empire or the Poles or anyone else was not much different from selling a million of them since there was no way that they could keep the Ottoman Empire or the Poles\u2014or the Swedes, for that matter\u2014from getting hold of an example rifle. So they might as well sell as many as they could. At least they weren't selling the Ottomans the breech-loading cannon. Yet, anyway.\n\nAnd, otherwise, things were getting better . . . mostly. Not so much for the bureau men as for Russia in general. Oil and silver were arriving from the Ottoman Empire, even some food from their Balkan provinces. Wheat was expensive in Moscow, but not yet too expensive. Steam engines, rifles and other things were going south in exchange.\n\n\"And so, certain boyars gain more silver and gold from the, ah, southern trade,\" Boris said. \"But at least they haven't shorted the grain supply . . . much.\"\n\n\"And our people are prepared.\" Pavel smiled. Potatoes had become incredibly popular among the peasants. You could hide a plot of potatoes from the taxman, or at least hide how many there were. There was considerable upset among the bureau men about the amount of farming equipment that was going south. But it was quiet, underground resentment. \"Three of our people have paid off their debt and gone to work for the railroad.\"\n\n\"Signing loan from the railroad?\" Boris asked and Pavel nodded. Even with the economy expanding and with inflation, enough rubles for a peasant to pay his way out of debt were hard to come by. So companies that had the money had started using signing loans to clear the peasant's debt, or, more accurately, transfer it to the company. Since the railroad was owned by the Sheremetev family, it had plenty of money for signing loans.\n\nExcept for its habit of nicking other peoples' serfs, the railroad from Moscow to Smolensk was a project that Boris strongly approved of. It used wooden rails, which would require constant maintenance. But Russia was well-supplied with wood, whereas iron and steel were far too expensive for such a massive project.\n\nBoris wondered about the railroad. Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev was one of the leaders of the pro-Polish\u2014it might be better to say, less-anti-Polish\u2014faction in the _Boyar_ _Duma_. The railroad could serve to facilitate trade with Poland, and through Poland with Austria-Hungary, but it could also be used as logistical support for an attack on Poland. Boris wondered which the director-general had in mind. Probably both.\n\nMeanwhile the industrial base along the Volga was producing more and more goods. Mostly simple stuff. The stuff that didn't need that much infrastructure. But it was surprising how much fell into that category, when it wasn't competing with established products.\n\n\"And our factory?\" Boris waited for his son to find the figures, then said, \"Excellent. Absolutely excellent.\"\n\nFreeze drying is expensive and time consuming when compared to canning . . . if you already have the infrastructure for a canning industry. It's much less so when it's competing against small-scale canning and down-time preservation methods. Once you had the foods freeze-dried, they were lightweight and stayed good for a long time. Which made them highly prized, both by the military and the civilian population. Boris' family and some partners from the Grantville Section had put together a small freeze-drying plant near the family's lands and added a lot of gardening. Carrots, onions, peas, cabbage, beets, even berries, were all being diced up and freeze-dried, then sealed in waxed paper pouches and stored in crates. Quite a bit of it was sold to the army and more in Moscow. Aside from the extra income, it meant that they had fresh (or the next thing to it) fruits and vegetables even in late winter and early spring. Which did good things for the health of his family and his serfs.\n\nThe new farming equipment meant that he needed a lot less labor in the fields most of the time, which had given the serfs time for the gardening. Boris, with his connection to the Dacha and the information from Grantville and the Ring of Fire, was running a year or more ahead of his neighbors, which meant that his family was doing a lot better than others of the same rank. Which was a good thing because there was considerable inflation of paper money, and silver was increasingly hard to come by. A paper ruble was\u2014by law\u2014worth the same as a silver ruble, but\u2014in fact\u2014worth less. How much less? No one knew. Gresham's Law was working at full force in Russia where the ruble was legally the same whether silver or paper, but not in Grantville where American dollars weren't tied to silver. Boris was, of course, paid in paper rubles\u2014so the farm income was especially important.\n\nBoris went back to his paperwork, wondering how things were going at the Dacha.\n**Chapter 67**\n\n**_October 1635_**\n\nFather Nikon walked down the hallway of the patriarch's palace as though he had every right to be there. He didn't. At least not officially. The person who occupied the patriarch's seat would have said he didn't, but he had God's permission to be here, so he didn't much care what Filaret thought. The monastery he was from wasn't the one his papers said he was from, or he would have had guards escorting him everywhere. Father Nikon was here because Filaret feared the up-time wisdom and wanted to keep it all to himself. But God had provided that wisdom to the entire world and Filaret was serving the devil in attempting to restrict it.\n\nArchbishop Joseph Kurtsevich and Father Nikon had discussed the matter several times and both the wealth and the new spiritual wisdom that God had sent from that other future had demonstrated that Filaret didn't hold God's favor. Control of the God-provided wealth of knowledge from the future didn't belong in the hands of a man who was so stingy with its benefits.\n\nFilaret was holding back the religious truth revealed by the up-timers. God had passed a great new miracle by bringing forth an entire new town from the future. Possessing new truths, practical as well as spiritual. But the false patriarch, Filaret, was suppressing the truth in order to maintain his personal power. He was rejecting the spiritual aspects of that new truth, considering only those dribbles that might seem useful to him at the moment.\n\nSo Father Nikon had been told. So Father Nikon believed.\n\nHe would remove the impediment and God's Grace and the up-timer's knowledge would flow into Holy Rus as a great flood of cleansing.\n\nHere in the patriarch's palace, priests' robes were not the least bit uncommon. And three additional priests wouldn't be noticed in any way, so long as they kept their six-shooters hidden. Father Nikon was proud of his. It would be the instrument of God's will. There were privileges that went with devotion to God. Father Nikon was confident that he would receive them in this world or the next.\n\nThe door to the patriarch's private quarters were guarded but that was expected. Father Nikon walked by them and then turned to face the guard as though just remembering something. The guard turned to look at him and Father Simon grabbed him by the throat and stuck a knife in his back. But the man didn't die quietly. He jerked and tried to scream and banged a fist on the door to the patriarch's rooms.\n\n* * *\n\nFilaret looked up when the pounding on the door began, annoyed. \"What is that noise?\" he grumbled. \"Go out there and stop it.\"\n\nThe guard, obeying his instructions, opened the door only to be flung back into the room as the door was slammed inward. Filaret stood, in shock, as the men rushed into the room.\n\nAlmost before Filaret consciously realized what was happening, he ducked behind his desk and started scrambling to get the drawer open. Filaret, too, had one of the Gun Shop's six-shooters that had been introduced by Cass Lowry.\n\nFilaret's guardsman started to shout, then there was a loud bang. Filaret never reached his six-shooter. The men ran around his desk and three shots were fired.\n\n* * *\n\nThe noise brought more guards, as Father Nikon had expected. What he hadn't expected was the bullet that entered his heart. Because he'd been assured that, once the false patriarch was dead, he would be safe and protected.\n\nFather Simon was killed next, then Father Petr joined him.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What's going on here?\" Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev shouted. \"Where is my cousin? We have an appointment.\"\n\n\"The patriarch has been murdered.\"\n\n\"How did you allow this to happen? Where are the assassins?\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir. The two guards that were here are dead. We had to kill the assassins. They were armed with up-time weapons. Could they have been sent by the Swede?\"\n\n\"Oh, my God. My cousin! The patriarch and I disagreed on many things, but Russia is a poorer place without him. For now we must see to protecting the czar and the royal family. Come with me, Captain.\"\n\nOver the next few hours, Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev went about protecting the realm from the unknown threat. Just as he'd intended. He spirited Czar Mikhail and his family out of Moscow, and then called an emergency meeting of the _Boyar Duma_.\n\n* * *\n\nThe rumors started spreading before the meeting started, for Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev had seeded the ground.\n\nThe primary rumor was that the czar and the patriarch had had a major argument over Czar Mikhail's plan to allow all serfs who could afford to buy out of their bondage to the land to do so. In the course of that argument, it was said, Filaret had suffered a heart attack.\n\nA secondary rumor was that Czar Mikhail had shot his father.\n\nAnother was that he collapsed, weeping hysterically, when he heard the news.\n\nBut, consistent among them all, was that without Filaret's influence, the czar would allow the serfs to run free.\n\nMoscow was packed with service nobility, whose estates would be left worthless by such an act.\n**Chapter 68**\n\n\"Back,\" Boris said softly. \"Get back.\"\n\nPavel pulled his head away from the alley's mouth. \"We can't go that way, Papa.\"\n\n\"Then we'll turn back and try another. We've got to get home to your mother and get her out of here.\"\n\nBoris and Pavel had rushed home, taking as many back ways as possible. There was danger on the major streets of Moscow, and it wasn't just the burning buildings. Gunshots were frequent.\n\nWhen they reached the house, Mariya had already packed. An old Moscow hand, she'd smelled the smoke and heard the shots. Fire was never a good thing in wooden Moscow, which had burned and arisen from its own ashes numerous times.\n\n\"What started it this time?\" Mariya asked.\n\n\"The patriarch is dead and there are crazy rumors making the rounds,\" Boris said. \"But they all seem to agree that the czar is planning to free the serfs.\"\n\n\"He'd never do it,\" Mariya said.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Boris said. \"He's been influenced a lot by the up-timers and the way they feel about serfdom is totally unreasonable.\" Boris shook his head. \"But it doesn't matter now. Get the bags out to the carriage.\"\n\n\"Where are we going, Papa?\"\n\n\"You and your mother are going home to the village. On your way, stop by the Dacha and pick up Ivan.\"\n\n\"You think it's that bad?\" Mariya asked.\n\n\"Yes. This isn't just a riot. This is politics,\" Boris said.\n\n\"I don't understand,\" Pavel said, somewhat apologetically.\n\n\"That's because you don't remember the Time of Troubles,\" his mother explained. \" _Dvoriane_ serve Russia and stay out of politics. Especially at times like these.\"\n\n\"But surely not this time. This time the _dvoriane_ are involved and the boyars' sons as well. This is about the serfs and the limited year. Our friends and our neighbors are involved. Many of them could lose everything if their serfs run off looking for gold\u2014\"\n\nSuddenly Pavel found himself against the wall with his father's hand around his throat. Pavel was a fairly tall young man, taking more after his mother than his father. He was also fairly quick, but he had been looking right at Papa and hadn't even seen him move.\n\n\"Yes,\" Boris said. \"And whoever wins, a lot of them are going to die in the next few days and weeks. The ones who have made too much noise. Someone is giving the _dvoriane_ enough rope to hang ourselves. The bureaus are going to be purged. That includes friends of ours, people we have known for years. But it's not going to include your mother or your brothers or you. Not if I can help it. We don't stay out of politics because we don't care, boy. We stay out of politics to stay alive. And I'll tell you something else. Whoever wins, it won't be the serfs and it won't be the _dvoriane,_ the boyars' sons or the _Streltzi._ It will be a faction of the high families. And any _dvoriane_ who gets involved will lose . . . even if they are on the winning side this time.\"\n\nPavel looked at his mother but she was looking back at him just as hard-eyed as his father. \"You don't remember what it was like when we had three czars in as many weeks, Pavel. But I do and your papa does.\"\n\n\"Now, are you going to do what I tell you to?\" Boris asked and Pavel felt his father's fingers tighten around his throat. Pavel nodded.\n\nThen his father released him and went on as though nothing had happened. \"On the way, you pick up Ivan. Thank God that two of your brothers are in Germany already. If Natasha asks what's happening, tell her but don't dally to do it. I wouldn't be surprised if the Dacha is targeted in the next few days.\"\n\nBoris' estimate was off. When Pavel and Mariya passed the Dacha there were troops already there. In fact, there were troops at the Dacha before the riot was well started.\n\n* * *\n\nAfter seeing his wife and son off, Boris went back to the office. This was a time to be precisely where you were supposed to be and easy to find\u2014so people wouldn't think you were somewhere you weren't supposed to be, doing something you shouldn't.\n\nBy the time he got to the office, several of his more experienced people were already there. \"Gregori, I need you to sanitize our records.\"\n\n\"You think we're going to get inspected?\" Gregori asked, then blushed for such a silly question.\n\n\"Of course we will. Every bureau in Russia is going to get inspected after this. Oh . . . and Gregori . . . not too sanitized.\"\n\nGregori smiled. It was still a rather nervous smile, but at least it was the smile of a man who knew what he had to do. The way these things went, the inspectors would keep looking until they found something. It was best to leave them something minor to find.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" Colonel Shuvalov said politely. \"But I have my orders from the _Boyar_ _Duma_.\"\n\nFrom the _Boyar_ _Duma_ , Natasha noted. Not from the czar or from the Assembly of the Land. Just the _Boyar_ _Duma_. The cabinet and the bureau heads had taken over the government. The troops, she was told, were there for the protection of the Dacha. Natasha also noted that the colonel was a member of the Sheremetev faction at court. Which wasn't good news. The takeover of the Dacha was amazingly anticlimactic, certainly for most of the people living and working there. From the start, the majority of the workers and researchers had been from the _dvoriane_ and the _deti boyars_. Including a couple of boyars' sons. Oh, there were a few peasants who had, through talent and work, made a place for themselves among the researchers. Anya and a few others. And more _Streltzi_ , especially where craftsmanship was needed. But the cultural outlook of the Dacha was that of the _dvoriane_ : do your job and stay away from politics. At least court politics . . . the bureaus had their own.\n\nUnfortunately, that option wasn't really available to Natasha. What protected her was the value of the Dacha itself. That, and keeping her silence. Changes were happening all over. The winners were moving their family members into positions of greater influence.\n**Chapter 69**\n\n**_December 1635_**\n\n\"Where are you headed, Tim?\" Ivan Maslov asked, looking over Lieutenant Boris \"Tim\" Timofeyevich Lebedev's new uniform\u2014complete with the new lieutenant's insignia\u2014with more than a touch of envy. Then he grinned. Tim was finally back in Moscow having\u2014lucky fellow\u2014missed Sheremetev's takeover in his absence. Tim was still not as good as Ivan was at war games but was getting better. More importantly he was a friend, and Ivan was pragmatic enough to realize that Tim's friendship was even more important now than it had been before the coup.\n\nTim shuddered. \"My uncle . . . he requires my report.\"\n\n\"But you did well at Rzhev! At least officially.\" Ivan envied the status his friend's family provided but didn't envy Tim his great uncle at all. He had met the old monster once and that was more than enough. Tim's great uncle was, by good fortune, a supporter of the Sheremetev faction, which now controlled the _Boyar_ _Duma_. General Shein, on the other hand, was now in charge of one section of the Siberian frontier, demoted and sent as far from Moscow as you could get and still be in Russia. From what Ivan had heard, General Shein had missed execution by a hair's breadth.\n\n\"My uncle is not limited to official channels,\" Tim said. \"I'm to have a chat with him. Which translates to giving him a full report on everything that happened. It will take hours, I promise you. Hours! I won't be able to gloss over anything.\"\n\nIvan knew that Tim would much rather downplay parts of what happened in Rzhev. More for Izmailov's sake than his own. Which was a pretty positive response to someone who had you cleaning out latrines.\n\n* * *\n\nTim's great uncle was no one's fool and ten times as politically astute as Tim ever wanted to be. It had taken him all of a minute and a half to get through the fiction of the contingency plan. He had laughed at General Izmailov's notion of giving Tim a medal and then having him shot. A rough, cackling laugh, that seemed to come from the depths of hell. \"A good plan,\" his uncle said when he finished laughing. \"But he was wise not to carry it through. I would have regretted having a man of such wit put to death.\"\n\nTim waited. Silent. At attention.\n\n\"Well?\" his uncle barked.\n\n\"Yes, sir. General Izmailov is a great general and a great asset to Russia.\"\n\n\"But a friend of Shein's\u2014one of his prot\u00e9g\u00e9s, in fact. Keep your distance from him, boy. Sheremetev's not fond of Shein. The war party didn't do well in this last shake up. I'll try to keep your general alive for you, but not to the point of risking the family. Now tell me about Khilkov. What went on? And why did Izmailov let him do it?\"\n\nTim told him. It wasn't like General Izmailov had much choice, considering Khilkov's family connections. Then they went on to the situation in Rzhev and the Polish border in general.\n\n\"Rzhev was a mistake, sir,\" Tim said. \"They didn't have the steam ships to take advantage of it, even if they had held the town. It really was one of the magnates going off on his own.\"\n\n\"I don't doubt it, boy. That's what started that business with the false Dmitris, back at the beginning of the Time of Troubles. Poland uses its magnates to test the waters.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. But they didn't have the logistic train to support it even if it had worked.\"\n\n\"You seem pretty sure of that, boy. The Poles are cavalry. They need their horses but can steal the rest.\"\n\nTim hesitated. He was in fact quite sure that cavalry would be trashed if it lacked infantry support and Russia controlled the rivers for troop transport. But his great uncle was a boyar of the _Duma_ and ruled the family with an iron hand. \"Not with us controlling the river with steam barges. War horses need grain, horseshoes, and so on. Cavalrymen need food and equipment\u2014which breaks in the field\u2014and gunpowder. They would do damage but with the steam barges to put troops in front of them and the walking walls and cannon . . . especially with the AK3's . . . they are going to run out of cavalry long before we run out of bullets. Over the course of an hour cavalry can outrun a steam barge, but over a day they can't keep up. With the dirigible to locate them . . .\" Tim shook his head. \"They wouldn't last a week.\"\n\n\"Tell me about the flying ship.\"\n\n\"It told us where they were. That was important in Rzhev, but would have been even more important if the Poles had tried to push farther in. It would have let us see where they were going and get there first. They would have been forced from one trap to another, until they were utterly destroyed. Cavalry is doing well to cover thirty miles a day; a dirigible can cover that in an hour or two, if the wind is good. Then go home and tell the infantry and mobile artillery where the cavalry is headed. Cavalry's day is over except as support troops. If that.\" Which was a risky thing to say because his great uncle had been a cavalry commander under Ivan the Terrible.\n\nAll in all, it was a grueling interview and Tim was happy to get back to the Kremlin. Though Tim didn't know it, the interview had a strong effect on the policies of the _Boyar_ _Duma_. Cavalry, which had always been the province of the service nobility, was downgraded in importance and so was the service nobility. Instead, the _Streltzi_ class with its rifle companies would be given more support and respect. It wouldn't happen in a year or even a decade, but between the destruction of Khilkov's cavalry and the many reports, both official and unofficial, the writing was on the wall. Eventually, because the service nobility was the class that produced the bureaucrats and the _Streltzi_ class was the class that produced the merchants, the private sector would gain\u2014a bit at a time\u2014the ear of the government and the public sector would be heeded a bit less. The years of limited mobility would not be allowed to lapse. With inflation, that would mean that more and more of the peasants would be able to pay off their debts to the lesser nobility and seek factory jobs.\n\nTotally by accident and without ever knowing it, Tim had struck a blow for freedom. A small blow. Even a tiny one. But enough such tiny blows and even the massive edifice of Russian serfdom might eventually fall.\n\n* * *\n\nTim had a week in Moscow to get all the new uniforms made, then he got sent as executive officer to a cousin who was leading a contingent of cavalry to the city of Murom. It was too late in the year, unfortunately, to use one of the new steam barges for the purpose. The rivers were already freezing over. Tim had hoped to ride on one of them.\n\n\"How is it, my friend,\" Ivan asked Tim, grinning evilly, \"that you have all the connections, the rank and a letter of thanks from the czar and I get the plum assignment?\"\n\nIt was, Tim thought morosely, an excellent question. Of course, Ivan's grin made it even worse. \"I told you I wouldn't be able to leave anything out,\" Tim said, referring to the meeting with his uncle. \"I'm being reminded I need to learn to follow orders. So while you become the aide of Captain Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov, new commander of the dirigible _Czarina Evdokia_ , I become the Executive Officer of Cousin Ivan Borisovich Lebedev. Which means I get to do all his work while he gets drunk and bothers the local girls.\"\n\n\"Your cousin who is also a captain and the new commander of the Murom _Streltzi._ Murom being the family seat of the newly famous Gorchakov family. So the whole town is supposed to be full of electricity and every peasant's hovel has indoor plumbing.\"\n\n\"While you get to go flying in the newest and biggest airship in the world. At least, I think the _Czarina_ is going to be bigger than any other so far built. In a just world, you would be stuck as Cousin Ivan Borisovich's aide in Murom with its electricity, and plumbing\u2014which I bet is not as good as rumor says\u2014and its small force of _Streltzi_. While Nick would be the captain of the _Czarina_ and I would be his executive officer, running test flights over Bor.\"\n\n\"That would be illegal and you know it. You're great house and Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky is _deti boyar_. They can't place someone of your family rank under someone of his.\"\n\n\"Fine, so leave Nick as captain and let you be his aide and Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov be his executive officer. Not the other way around.\"\n\nIvan sighed histrionically and Tim wanted to hit him, mostly because he knew his friend was right and he was being silly. Then Ivan continued, \"Sheremetev's faction won in the latest shakeup. With the death of the patriarch and the purges in the bureaus, the Gorchakov clan\u2014while not in disgrace\u2014didn't exactly come out of it smelling of roses. Besides, you know as well as I do that the Sheremetev family outranks the Gorchakov family. If the Gorchakovs were in better odor at court then Captain Slavenitsky might have gotten the slot but Ruslan Andreyavich Shuvalov wouldn't have been put under his command even then.\n\n\"With the shake up, the riots, the patriarch's death, Sheremetev has been declared Director-General by the _Boyar Duma_. He is the effective ruler of Russia and he is going to do everything he can to shift any of the glory that comes out of the up-timer knowledge to the Sheremetev clan. That's why his up-timer Cass Lowry is to be put in charge of the Dacha. And they couldn't put you under the command of Captain Ruslan Andreyavich Shuvalov any more than they could put you under the command of your friend Captain Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky. That's the drawback of being of a great house. The only way they could make you the executive officer of the _Czarina_ would be to put your cousin in command of her.\"\n\n\"Anything but that.\" Tim shuddered.\n\n\"See!\" Ivan said. \"And Captain Shuvalov is a capable man, if a bit of a cold fish. So, since you're guarding the Gorchakov family seat, what's happening at the Gorchakov Dacha?\"\n**Part Six**\n\n**_The year 1636_**\n**Chapter 70**\n\n**_February 1636_**\n\nCass rode up to the Dacha with a mixture of trepidation and glee. He was finally going to get his own back from that traitor Bernie and his bitch Natasha. And he planned to have a little fun with that Anya chick, too. At the same time, Cass knew he had to be careful. Sheremetev and his gang weren't the sort of people you crossed. But sooner or later, they'd get bored and leave the place fully in Cass' control. Then he'd have the run of the place.\n\n* * *\n\nFor several weeks things went along pretty much as they had before. The Dacha's contacts with the outside world had always been limited; now they were the next best thing to nonexistent. Even contact with associated projects like the _Czarina Evdokia_ , the large dirigible being built in Bor just across the Volga from Nizhny Novgorodi, or the foundry and gun shop located in Podol just a few miles away from the Dacha, were difficult and sporadic.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I'd kind of like to know what Cass is doing here,\" Bernie said. \"And do we know anything about why Tami Simmons came to Moscow also, and with her whole family? She's the American nurse.\"\n\n\"The czar and czarina were so impressed with the spring typhoid reductions they decided to bring in a real up-time medical expert. Do you know her?\"\n\nBernie shrugged. \"In passing, the way people in a small town more or less know anyone else in the town. She's from Kentucky, originally, and she's a lot older than me. I know her husband Gerry a little better, but still not very well.\"\n\nBernie looked around the room at the tense, worried faces, then back at Natasha. She was pale enough that she wouldn't need the kabuki makeup women wore in Russia in the here and now. Bernie tried for something vague and unthreatening. \"That Shuvalov dude seems like a pretty good guy. Do you think he'd let me send a message home?\"\n\nHe hadn't thought it was possible, but Natasha went even whiter.\n\n\"Don't try it right now, Bernie,\" she said. \"Just leave it for a bit.\"\n\n\"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, Natasha? I know there's something I'm missing here. Besides the armed soldiers, of course. And not seeing Boris for weeks. And the fact that everyone is tiptoeing around like ghosts while Cass is acting like Cass Squared.\"\n\n\"Colonel Shuvalov is a _deti boyar_ , a retainer of the Sheremetev family, Bernie. Rather like Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky is to my family.\"\n\n\"Yeah. He's pretty polite. Nice guy,\" Bernie said. Not getting what this had to do with the price of beets.\n\n\"He goes out of his way to be cordial,\" Natasha admitted. Her face got pinched. \"But stop and think, Bernie. Colonel Shuvalov doesn't push it, as you would say. But . . . he's here for more than one purpose. My family, the Gorchakov family, were once independent princes. We retain the titles and are very wealthy. We're just not as politically well-connected as some of the other great families. At least we hadn't been. With the Dacha we were starting to become so. So Colonel Shuvalov has been selected . . .\"\n\n_\"He's after you?\"_ Now Bernie got it and he didn't like it. He _really_ didn't like it. This sort of thing was bad enough when applied to some ordinary down-timer but applied to Natasha . . . ?\n\nSomewhere in a part of his mind that he usually tried to avoid, Bernie understood that his feelings for Natasha had gelled in a certain way. Quite a while ago, in fact. But he still had no idea what to do about it, Russian noble society being what it was\u2014and now _this_ just got dumped on him!\n\n\"That's slavery . . . or something. Like something out of a book! One of my sister's stupid romance novels.\"\n\nNatasha laughed bitterly. \"Romance has very little to do with it. Through me, my family and its fortune will serve Shuvalov's ambitions. Our . . . sons . . . will be boyars, great family boyars.\"\n\n_\"That stinks!\"_\n\n\"Calm down, Bernie. Don't lose your temper,\" Natasha said. \"As long as we're quiet and don't make a fuss, Colonel Shuvalov will remain polite. He would much prefer to have a . . . mutually supportive relationship. But the relationship itself is in no way optional. Not on my part and not really on his. The basic motivation behind the match is to move my family's wealth into the Sheremetev family's control. It's politics, Bernie. International politics as much as internal. Sheremetev is pro-Polish, anti-Swedish. The patriarch was anti-Polish, and so favored the Swede.\"\n\n\"And Director-General Sheremetev has a reasonable point,\" Filip said. \"I like the concepts you up-timers bring, but Gustav Adolf is just another would-be emperor of the world. Not that different from Genghis Kahn or your Napoleon or Hitler.\"\n\n\"Oh, come on. Gustav Adolf isn't anything like Hitler,\" Bernie said.\n\n\"And how is Gustav Adolf different from Adolf Hitler, in the up-timer histories?\" Misha asked.\n\n\"He's Swedish, not German.\" Nikolai laughed.\n\n\"Hitler was . . . would have been . . . Austrian, not German. Gustav Adolf made himself emperor of Germany the same way Hitler did in that other history, and is at war with a lot of the same people. France, England, Poland.\"\n\n\"Which is just fine with me.\" Nikolai wasn't laughing now. \"Useless Poles! With their false Dmitris, murder and looting. At least we taught them a lesson at Rzhev.\"\n\n\"And after that?\" Misha asked. \"How long before Gustav Adolf's Operation Barbarossa?\"\n\n\"He's too canny for that. After all, the histories make it quite clear how it turned out. Besides, the reports are that he's out of commission because of the wounds he got at that battle last fall.\"\n\nMisha shrugged. \"He may well recover. And if he doesn't, we will have to deal with Oxenstierna, who is no better. Hitler was a lousy general and didn't understand Russian winters. Gustav Adolf and Oxenstierna are very good generals and do understand Russian winters. That makes them more dangerous than Hitler, the way I see it.\"\n\nFor a while Bernie let the conversation roll over him. He had been paying a bit more attention to politics since the coup, and he was having a lot of trouble making sense of it all. He appreciated that Gustav Adolf had ridden to the rescue of Grantville in the Croat raid, but he didn't approve of the USE having a king or the New U.S. being reduced to just another state. It seemed like Mike Stearns had given up too much of what America had been up-time. Maybe he had no choice, but that didn't make Bernie any more loyal to some Swedish king and his German prime minister.\n\nBernie came to another realization, at that point. The Ring of Fire had happened almost five years ago\u2014and he'd spent more than four of those years in Russia. By now, Bernie had more friends in Russia than he did in Grantville. His Russian was fluent and idiomatic, even if he'd always have a fairly pronounced accent. So Natasha told him, anyway.\n\nFor that matter, the American he was probably closest to, Brandy, had gone and married a Russian herself. He had to face it. The America he knew\u2014had been born in, raised in\u2014was just gone. Gone forever. The USE that had sort of replaced it in this universe didn't really mean much to him.\n\nThe truth was, the USE seemed just like another down-time nation. From where Bernie was sitting, there wasn't really that much difference between Czar Mikhail with Sheremetev and King Gustav Adolf with Wettin. At this point, Bernie just hoped that the kings, emperors and czars of the world didn't start a war that had up-timer fighting up-timer. He honestly didn't know what he would do if that happened.\n\nIt wasn't that Bernie had any love for the Russian government, because he didn't. The czar himself seemed like a pretty decent guy but he wasn't running the show\u2014and serfdom just plain stank.\n\nBut that didn't really matter. For good or ill, better or worse, Russia was his country now. It was where he lived, worked, and . . . had fallen in love, really for the first time in his life. It was the country where he'd healed himself, at least as well as he could. He owed Russia for that, if nothing else.\n\nIn for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying went. He had no idea what to do, but he did know where he'd be doing whatever he did. Right here. In\u2014ha! who would've guessed?\u2014Mother Russia.\n\nNatasha was still talking. \"They don't intend to take the family's wealth away\u2014just control of it. They consider it necessary, since while the Gorchakovs aren't really one of the great families\u2014we are one of the twenty but not one of the fourteen\u2014we have acquired a degree of wealth and a set of connections that makes the family potentially disruptive if not brought to heel. Reined in, as it were.\n\n\"It could be a lot worse, Bernie,\" Natasha pointed out. \"Colonel Shuvalov is bright, charming, and a decent sort. He's not . . . one of the worst. Not old. Not gross. More modern than some.\"\n\nBernie didn't really agree with Natasha's assessment, even leaving aside his own desire for the woman. Shuvalov was also, unfortunately, completely loyal to his patron. He was aware of Sheremetev's ambitions but didn't feel that those ambitions absolved him of his duty. And if the ambition didn't, neither did the greed that the Sheremetev family was famous for.\n\n\"He's like . . . I dunno . . . some kind of samurai about duty and honor,\" Bernie said. \"And I kind of like him. But we can't trust him because his loyalty will always come before his honor. If his boss tells him to feed us all to the pigs, that's what he'll do. I don't see how we can get out of this mess. We don't have enough men to do anything, and not enough weapons, either.\"\n\n\"So we keep our mouths shut,\" Natasha said. \"We wait and we don't cause trouble. For now, Director-General Sheremetev is busy making sure his position is consolidated. Shuvalov isn't the worst. Let's hope he's left in charge here.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe worst, as Anya well knew, certainly wasn't Colonel Shuvalov. In her opinion, the worst was Cass. She didn't like the way he looked at her, not at all. And she didn't like the way he was treating the other girls at the Dacha.\n\nAnd she dreaded the day Colonel Shuvalov left. Cass would have no restraints. More and more, Anya was convinced that they would have to escape.\n\nWell, she'd done that before. But never with a princess in tow, much less an up-timer.\n\n* * *\n\n\"He's not the worst,\" Aunt Sofia pointed out.\n\n\"He's not the worst, he's not the worst, he's not the worst!\" Natasha chanted and threw her hands in the air. \"I know perfectly well that he's not the worst, dammit.\"\n\n\"You've been around Bernie too long,\" Sofia said. \"Stop using that word, even in English.\"\n\nNatasha turned a stone face to her. \"He's not the worst. But he's not what I want.\"\n\n\"What do you want, child?\"\n\n\"I don't know yet. I haven't had a chance to learn what _I_ want.\"\n\nThat wasn't really true. She knew it\u2014and judging by the expression on her face, her aunt Sofia knew it too. What Natasha wanted was Bernie, but that seemed as remote as the moon.\n\nShe paused a moment. \"I want Vladimir. I wish I could talk to my brother.\"\n\n* * *\n\n_\"Damn their eyes!\"_\n\nFor a moment, Brandy thought Vladimir was quoting another book. Then she realized that he was angrier than she'd ever seen him.\n\nThey were in the salon. She was reading a book and Vladimir was trying to catch up on the endless paperwork. He'd just opened the latest dispatch bag from Moscow. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"You know that delayed mica shipment?\" Vladimir leaped out of his chair and began pacing. \"It wasn't delayed because of weather or bandits. Well, not real bandits. The _Boyar_ _Duma_ delayed it. On purpose. They've also taken Czar Mikhail and his family hostage, along with that nurse and her family.\" He thrust the letter toward her. \"Look at this! Just look at it!\"\n\nBrandy was forced to push the papers away from her face. \"Calm down, Vladimir. And talk sensibly. What else has happened?\"\n\nHe pulled the papers back, then read from them. \"Because of its vital importance to the state, the Dacha has been placed under guard.\" Vladimir threw the paper onto the table. \"That means they've got Natasha. And Bernie.\"\n\n* * *\n\nOver the next few days, after Vladimir had calmed down a bit more, Brandy was able to read a translation of the offending papers.\n\nCzar Mikhail and his family were safe, if being held hostage was safe. Not that they were officially being held hostage. They had \"been moved out of Moscow to ensure the czar's safety.\" The up-time nurse Tami Simmons and her family were being held in the same place as the czar, so, again, they were safe. The manager at the mica mine, while nothing had yet been done to him, was being held under suspicion of \"involvement in the recent unpleasantness.\" Accusations of corruption had been laid against the manager . . . and against Vladimir himself.\n\nNo shipments of anything would be sent from Moscow or from Vladimir's own lands. He was, effectively, broke.\n\nBernie and Natasha, along with the rest of the Dacha staff, were in \"protective custody.\"\n**Chapter 71**\n\n**_March 1636_**\n\n\"We will be having guests,\" Colonel Shuvalov said.\n\nNatasha looked up at his comment. \"Guests?\"\n\n\"Yes. Representatives from the Ottoman Empire. They have been looking at factories on the Don and Volga rivers and we have been told to be circumspect in what we show them.\"\n\nNatasha hated to ask Shuvalov, but she needed to know. \"What is going on?\"\n\n\"The government is looking for new allies in case Gustav Adolf and the USE decide to look east for new lands to conquer.\"\n\n\"Insanity!\"\n\n\"Actually, it's not,\" Shuvalov said, with what sounded like real regret. \"You know that Sweden is perfectly willing to bite off pieces of Russia. Our access to the Baltic is now Swedish Ingria and we pay taxes to Sweden on every cargo that sails from Nyen _._ The USE is rapidly becoming the richest, most industralized, nation in Europe . . . Yet the Swedes still complain about our holding back the grain shipments when they know we lost a quarter of this year's crop to the early storm.\"\n\n\"But the up-timers would never let . . .\"\n\n\"Let? 'Let' is not a word used with kings, Princess Natalia. Besides, Michael Stearns lost their election. He is no longer the prime minister\u2014for that matter, unless he recovers from his battle injuries, Gustav Adolf is no longer the emperor.\"\n\n\"You really don't care about anything, do you?\" Natasha spat. \"Whatever your master says, you parrot him!\"\n\nShuvalov looked at her and Natasha realized that she might have gone too far. Shuvalov was Sheremetev's man and Director-General Sheremetev was the most powerful man in Russia. Since Sheremetev had taken power there had been a purge of the bureaus the like of which hadn't been seen since Ivan the Terrible. The Dacha and the Grantville Section had gotten off fairly lightly\u2014in large part because between them they were the goose that was laying the golden eggs. But even they weren't untouched. Boris had lost several people who were considered politically questionable and the Dacha remained under guard.\n\n\"Director-General Sheremetev is a great man. He is not perfect. No one is, even those touched by God. He's right about where the threat comes from. The Limited Year hasn't been repealed and the bureau men aren't screaming about it anymore. They're too busy covering their asses by kissing his. The purge in the bureaus has been extreme, but it hasn't been entirely political. A lot of the deadwood has been removed and there is greater opportunity for those with more talent and fewer family connections. Peasants aren't just going to look for gold in the mountains, they are finding factory jobs all along the Volga. The jobs aren't wonderful, but they are better than being a farmer.\n\n\"As to the director-general's foreign policy . . . However noble of character the up-timers may be, they aren't in control of the USE. They have influence out of proportion to their numbers, but those numbers are minuscule. Poland is probably less of a threat to us than the axis of Sweden and the USE. From where we sit, the biggest difference between Napoleon or Hitler and Gustav Adolf is that his army would probably do quite well in a winter war in Russia. He was born and raised in Sweden, after all. If he should decide to take Poland and keep coming east, we will be facing a force that outnumbers us and outguns us, led by a man who is quite possibly the greatest general of our time. We will need allies. All of them we can get.\n\n\"Natalia Petrovna,\" Shuvalov said, \"I take no joy in the thought of war with the up-timers. But I learned at an early age that what I want doesn't control what happens.\"\n\n* * *\n\nDirector-General Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev rode his horse up to the gates of the Dacha compound at the head of a troop of personal cavalry. He had still not made up his mind what to do about the Dacha. His cousin, Ivan Petrovich, wanted it. Wanted it badly. And Ivan Petrovich, corrupt as he was, had support within the family and the _Boyar_ _Duma_. Also, Fedor could rely on Ivan to crack down on the Dacha staff.\n\nWhich was, in a way, the problem. Ivan Petrovich would squeeze the golden goose all right\u2014but he just might choke it to death. And the Dacha had been laying right well over the last couple of years. Among other things, it had laid the logistics for the dust-up with Poland. Which had put Russia in a better position than it had been for twenty years.\n\nA lot depended on how well Leontii Shuvalov's suit was progressing. If the Gorchakov heiress, Natalia, was proving difficult, Fedor might have to go with Ivan Petrovich because he could not afford to have the Dacha or the Gun Shop running loose. He got down from his horse with difficulty and shook Leontii's hand. \"How goes your suit?\"\n\n\"Reasonably well, Director-General,\" Leontii said. \"Princess Natalia understands the situation. I won't say she is thrilled, but I doubt she will fight it.\"\n\n\"And how do . . .\" Fedor paused as the lady in question arrived. \"We'll talk later.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"The letters have gone out to Poland, what's left of the Holy Roman Empire and the Turks,\" Director-General Sheremetev said. \"I'm not sure of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, mostly because Wladyslaw can't seem to get over the notion that he should be czar of Russia, but who knows? I expect to have better luck with Murad. I don't know which way Ferdinand will jump.\"\n\n\"And the riots?\" Leontii asked.\n\n\"Worked quite well at distracting Mikhail's adherents and added enough between him and the bureau men to cut off most of his information flow. They have also provided more than ample justification for cracking down on the bureaus. I think we have them put in their place for now.\" Sheremetev snorted. \"Button clerks, the lot of them. Self-important button clerks who have been getting above themselves since the Time of Troubles. They needed to be shown the stick. We'll wait a few more weeks before we show them the carrot.\" Sheremetev was talking about a plan to put enforcement of the ties to the land in the hands of the government.\n\n\"Anyway, you will have heard the reports by now. So what do you think of Cass?\"\n\nShuvalov said, \"He does know and understand up-timer technology. But I'm deeply concerned about his effect on the atmosphere here. I had visited the Dacha a couple of times when Bernie and Princess Natalia were in charge, and there was an openness to it. It's hard to explain. Everyone cared about the work. Everyone, from the maids with the chamber pots to Natalia herself. All the way up and down the line, everyone was concerned with making a contribution. I've tried to maintain that attitude, but with Cass it's almost impossible. He demeans everyone.\"\n\nDirector-General Sheremetev laughed at the colonel. \"Leontii, my boy, the up-timers would call you a boy scout. I saw the same thing you saw, my friend. But it was too free. Believe me, the Dacha will produce more with a bit more of the whip and less of the carrot.\"\n\n\"Very well, sir. But I still despise that bastard. And I don't care at all for the way he looks at Princess Natalia.\"\n\n\"Is the princess interested in the up-timer?\" Sheremetev gave Leontii a sharp look.\n\n\"No.\" Leontii laughed. \"She despises Cass even more than I do. She might be interested in Bernie, though. She's young and inexperienced. I don't believe she really knows her own mind.\"\n\n\"And that could be dangerous.\" Sheremetev nodded. \"I'll look into it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nDirector-General Sheremetev did indeed look into it. He interviewed both Bernie and Natasha and came away from those interviews uncertain. Bernie really was too valuable an asset to dispose of casually. He understood what was being built in the Dacha better than any other single person. That very knowledge made him more dangerous.\n\nThat night at dinner, Natasha asked the question that they had all been wondering about. \"What is the situation in Moscow?\"\n\nThe director-general looked at her then turned to Bernie. \"Are you familiar with the Tokugawa shogunate of Japan?\"\n\nNatasha knew that before Bernie had come to the Dacha he would have been, at best, vaguely familiar with the history of Japan or the rule of the shoguns. However, while most of his education as a consultant at the Dacha was technical, some of it was historical, especially for what was now current history. And Bernie had ended up translating or helping to translate quite a bit of history.\n\n\"Yes, a bit, Director-General Sheremetev. The emperor is mostly a religious figurehead. He reigns, but he doesn't rule. It's the shogun who has the real political power.\"\n\nSheremetev nodded. \"Yes, that's basically correct. I believe we need a similar system here in Russia, given all the problems we've had with our czars. I believe Russia needs a strong hand at the reins, but doesn't need\u2014certainly can't afford\u2014the sort of, ah, disruption that a dynastic squabble would produce. To provide the first while avoiding the second, I have taken on a role analogous to that of shogun. Mikhail never really wanted the power of the throne, anyway. This way Mikhail will remain safe, comfortable and secure . . . as long as there is no trouble.\" He smiled.\n\nIt was, Natasha thought, an extremely cold smile.\n\n\"Mikhail's limited year was a good plan, poorly executed,\" he continued. \"We do need more gold and silver to augment the paper money and to use in foreign trade. However, the way he did it, without properly preparing the ground, almost led to a revolution.\"\n\nNatasha didn't snort, not even under her breath, but she wanted to. Yes, the _dvoriane_ were upset, but they never would have rioted unless they believed that they had support in the _Boyar_ _Duma_.\n\n\"He had no means in place to ensure the loyalty of the service nobility,\" Sheremetev continued. \"That is why I have created the post of political officer. Russia had them up-time under Stalin's rule. They watched the service nobility, even if they called it something else in the twentieth century. Political officers will be mostly, but not entirely, _deti boyar_ , whose job is to make sure that their charges don't do anything stupid. I thought of using the church, but people get really upset about things like that.\"\n\nSuddenly everyone was looking at Colonel Leontii Shuvalov.\n\nDirector-General Sheremetev noticed and laughed. \"Oh, not at all. Leontii is a fine man, but not nearly the right man for this. The new political officer for the Dacha is . . . Cass Lowry.\"\n**Chapter 72**\n\n**_A hunting lodge just west of Tatarovo_**\n\nMikhail Romanov, Czar of all the Rus, bounced his daughter on his knee with a mixture of relief and profound loss. The relief was because he and his family were safe\u2014at least for the moment. The loss was not for the loss of power, but for the loss of his father.\n\nMikhail had been told that his father had died of a stroke and that was entirely possible. Filaret, Patriarch of Russia, had in fact had a series of minor strokes. And, considering the rumors about the limited year and the peasants, the riots were a natural response to his father's death.\n\nStill, the timing was suggestive, and Fedor Ivanovich had been awfully quick to respond. Filaret would never have gone along with Sheremetev's takeover and he had the connections to fight back. Mikhail couldn't help the belief that one of Sheremetev's agents had managed to get close enough to the patriarch to help the stroke along. The possibility that Filaret was still alive was no more than a fantasy.\n\nMikhail knew that he should be fighting \"Director-General\" Sheremetev because of those suspicions and for the good of Russia. But he wasn't. He knew virtually nothing of what was going on in the wider world. He had no basis to plan and, for now at least, he and his family were being treated quite well. Also, from what he did know, Sheremetev's plan depended on his continued safety.\n\nLife was full of strange twists of fate and even more so when you were living in a time of miracles. The Ring of Fire had seemed a wild rumor when they had first heard of it. Sending Vladimir to confirm it\u2014or rather, disprove it, which was the outcome they'd expected\u2014had just been a precautionary measure. But it had all proved to be true. Vladimir had stayed in Grantville to learn the secrets of the up-timers and Boris had brought an up-timer back with him. Bernie Zeppi had started out as little more than a dictionary of up-timer English on legs. But being used as a dictionary has side effects. Poor Bernie had found himself in school. Mikhail laughed a little at that thought. One student and hundreds of anxious teachers, each insisting that he learn enough to explain some other artifact of a language that was foreign even to those who spoke seventeenth-century English. Mikhail could sympathize with Bernie's predicament; he wasn't a scholar by choice, either.\n\nAnd he, like Bernie, had been forced by circumstances into a role he wasn't well prepared for when he had been dragooned into becoming czar of Russia.\n\nCome to that, Vladimir wasn't a trained spy. Still, the young prince was doing an excellent job\u2014aided and abetted by the up-timers' free way with their knowledge. He and Boris had kept Russia from the Smolensk War, even before Boris brought Bernie to Russia. Vladimir had married a up-timer girl and was well situated in their community. And quite openly, for the most part, sending tons of copied books to Moscow, along with information on innovations made since the Ring of Fire as down-time craftsmanship had combined with up-time knowledge. That part was harder, from what Mikhail understood, because some of the new businesses were much more secretive than the State Library of Thuringia-Franconia. Still, Boris had left Vladimir a good core organization and Vladimir had expanded it. So the Dacha and the Gun Shop, Russia's industrial and military research and development shops, were well supplied with up-timer knowledge.\n\nThat knowledge, combined with Russian ingenuity and a willingness to go with simple, workable solutions rather than slavishly copy everything the up-timers were doing, plus a brute force approach that involved putting lots of people to work on projects that the up-timers could probably do with a lot less, had stood Russia in very good stead. Both industrially and in the recent battle over Rzhev. Russia had the beginnings of an electronics industry at the price of several people accidentally electrocuted. Telegraphs and telephones in the Kremlin and spark gap radios. And they were experimenting with tubes and transistors, Mikhail was told, although so far unsuccessfully. A test dirigible built and used at Rzhev and a much larger one under construction. Plumbing at the Dacha and starting to appear other places, including parts of Moscow. New rifled muskets with replaceable chambers for the army and a few new breech-loading cannon as well. New pumps for clearing mines of water and for creating vacuums. Which apparently had a myriad of uses. Improved roads, steam engines . . . the list went on and on. Sucking up labor almost as fast as the new plows and reapers freed it, perhaps faster. The free peasantry\u2014what was left of it\u2014had been among the first to go to the factories and set up their own, along with the _Streltzi_ who were Russia's traditional merchant class.\n\nMikhail was less happy about some of the policy changes that Sheremetev had come up with. Selling to the Turks especially bothered him.\n\n**_Moscow, the Grantville Section_**\n\nBoris filled out paperwork and tried not to think about what was happening. \"Director-General\" Sheremetev was an idiot who had no concept of how to treat people to get the best work out of them. He couldn't inspire or motivate, save through threats. But, for now at least, the threats seemed to be working. Sheremetev had complete control of the _Boyar_ _Duma_ through a combination of bribes and coercion. Worse, he was what the up-timers called a micromanager, and his decisions were wrong more often than not.\n\nIt wasn't that Boris disagreed with Sheremetev's assessment of the general situation in Europe. The Swede was much more dangerous than the Pole. That had to be clear to anyone except an idiot. Boris had studied the history of the world on the other side of the Ring of Fire and one thing was clear: Poland had always been a nuisance to Russia and usually an antagonist, but never a mortal threat. Only twice since the Mongol yoke was thrown off had foreign powers come close to destroying Russia. First, the French; then the Germans. Never the Poles.\n\nThe key was economic development. The Poles had been too backward themselves to pose more than a middling danger. The real peril came from western and central Europe, not eastern Europe.\n\nBut economic development presupposed financial reform, and Boris didn't think Sheremetev really understood paper money. Boris didn't really understand it himself that well, but he'd seen it work in Grantville and knew it was the way forward. True enough, Sheremetev was supporting the new currency, at least officially. But where Czar Mikhail's support had been genuine, Boris figured that Sheremetev was just using it to lure people into giving him gold and working for nothing.\n\nThe end result was likely to discredit the new money altogether, and so Russia would remain mired in poverty and ignorance. Sheremetev understood the threat from western Europe\u2014but was making it worse, not better.\n\n**_Grantville_**\n\n\"The\"\u2014Vladimir held up his hands and made quote marks in the air\u2014\"'Director-General' is teaching us a lesson,\" Vladimir explained. \"He's also tempting us, putting pressure on to see if we will defect. Well, if _I_ will defect. You hold dual citizenship.\"\n\n\"What lesson?\" Brandy asked.\n\n\"Don't try to hold up the Russian government. Or, more accurately, don't fail to cut him in on it.\"\n\n\"So how bad is it?\"\n\n\"Bad! For us here it's the advances.\" The ruble, now a paper currency, with the image of Czar Mikhail and the double-headed eagle on the face and the Moscow Kremlin and a Russian bear on the back, was valued at less than half the value of the Dutch guilder in spite of the fact that it was supposed to be equivalent to the silver ruble coin that had twice the silver of the Dutch guilder. Partly that was because the czar and _Boyar_ _Duma_ had issued rather more rubles than they really should have. But mostly it was because the Dutch merchants resented the paper ruble. The new currency had changed the whole trading landscape in Russia. Dutch merchants had gone from absolutely vital to convenient. And the price they paid at Arkhangelsk for grain, cordage, lumber, and other Russian goods had more than doubled.\n\nSo, the Dutch wouldn't deal in Russian paper money or money of account based on Russian money. They would still accept Russian coins, but their refusal to deal in Russian paper had its effect. \"If the canny Dutch merchants wouldn't take paper rubles, there must be something wrong with them. Right?\" So rubles traded in Grantville, Venice and Vienna at less than a quarter of face value. And that was if you were basing face value on the amount of silver in a ruble coin. If you figured it in the price of a bushel of grain at Arkhangelsk versus the same bushel at Amsterdam, it traded at less than a tenth of its face value.\n\nIt was hard to make a profit when you were losing more than nine-tenths of your money to arbitrage. Vladimir spent his rubles where they would buy something, then shipped the goods to the USE for resale, just as he had been doing from the beginning. And, like any good man of business, he tried to find buyers in advance rather than shipping the goods on spec. What Sheremetev objected to was how much of the money Vladimir was investing in Grantville and the USE. Sheremetev wanted Vladimir to buy silver and gold and send it back to Moscow. Which made no sense at all. If Vladimir was going to do anything along those lines, he would be buying paper rubles in Grantville with silver where he could get a lot of them, then shipping the rubles back to Moscow where they would buy more.\n\nVladimir had contracts to sell five thousand stacked-plate mica capacitors, plus several tons of other mica products. But what he didn't have was this quarter's shipment of mica and mica-based components. Also missing were a couple of hundred miles of cordage, several tons of Russian hardwoods, plus sundry other goods. In other words, several million American dollars worth of goods, which he was morally and legally obligated to provide. And about half of it had been paid for in advance. He was insured against loss at sea. With Swedish control of the Baltic, the insurance hadn't been all that expensive.\n\nWhat he wasn't insured against was Sheremetev and the _Boyar_ _Duma_ preventing him from bringing out the goods. Goods that had never sailed from Nyen _\u2014_ St. Petersburg it would have become in that other history. Goods that had never even reached Swedish Ingria. It wasn't just that money wasn't coming in\u2014money that had already come would have to be paid back with penalties for nondelivery.\n\nVladimir wasn't broke exactly. He was now deeply in debt. In some ways that was better than being broke, but in others much worse. Partly to gain access to the developing tech and partly just because it was good long-term financial strategy, he had invested in some of the more long-term projects. He was, for instance, fairly heavily invested in three of the companies that were working on down-time manufacture of automobiles. And he was the major investor in a group that was working on the tubes for microwaves. They didn't expect results for years, but they were working on it and Vladimir was the primary backer of the research. Microwave tech was just too useful to ignore because it was hard to do.\n\n\"It's bad for us here but what I'm really worried about is Natasha. Sheremetev can make me go out and get a real job, but that's not much of a threat. The real threat is that he can kill my sister. What I would like to do is get Natasha out of Russia. But I don't see any way to do it.\"\n\n\"How much time do we have?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Well, I can send a fruitcake,\" Brandy said, \"You know the kind with a saw in it. A metaphoric saw in this case. Instructions about how to arrange an unauthorized immigration.\"\n\n\"It's a worthy thought,\" Vladimir agreed, \"but I don't think she'd come. Aside from everything else, Sheremetev needs me as much or more than I need him. If he didn't have Natasha I'd be able to tell him to shove it.\"\n**Chapter 73**\n\n**_April 1636_**\n\n\"So how are they doing out there?\" Natasha asked as Anya came in.\n\nAnya had taken to sleeping in Natasha's room. Partly that was because neither Natasha nor Filip liked it when she slept in Bernie's room and Anya had discovered that she cared about that in more than purely practical terms. She still didn't know what if anything would develop with Filip, but her friendship with Natasha was genuine and mattered to her.\n\nBernie was no longer comfortable with their old relationship anyway. That much was obvious even if he never said anything. Anya figured his discomfort came from the fact that he knew it bothered Natasha\u2014not that Bernie would ever admit to his feelings about the princess, or probably even understand them well in the first place. From the future or not, men were still men. Stupid, when it came to such matters.\n\nBut the main reason Anya had moved into Natasha's quarters was that she was better protection against Cass Lowry than Bernie was. Bernie was too likely to lose his temper and attack Cass, which would just make the situation worse. Natasha was a Gorchakov princess and Cass had learned the hard way that it was dangerous to cross her.\n\n\"Not well,\" she said in response to Natasha's question. \"Mr. Lowry insists that the Dacha should limit itself to strictly practical applications.\"\n\nNatasha snorted. \"What _he_ calls practical. He wants fixed-wing aircraft! How is that practical?\"\n\nAfter they'd talked about the Dacha and the scientific future of Russia for a bit\u2014bad and getting worse by the day\u2014they switched over to more personal matters.\n\n\"So Filip seems interested in you?\" Natasha asked.\n\n\"Which might have meant something if this were still the Dacha,\" Anya said glumly. \"I mean your and Bernie's Dacha, not Sheremetev and Cass's Dacha. You know what I mean. Anything seemed possible then. We were all working to change the world. It made anything seem possible.\"\n\nAnya saw Natasha's nod of agreement and understanding. \"Before Bernie I was a caged pet,\" Natasha said. \"Then Bernie arrived and there was the Dacha . . . a place to work, to read, full of people who understood. Who wanted to understand. Who thought about how things worked and how they might be made to work better. All because of Bernie. Almost by existing, he made the world bloom. For four years we had a scholar's paradise. They've been the best years of my life.\"\n\nShe was a young woman but in that moment sounded very old, as if she were talking about a time long ago.\n\n\"Can you imagine what it would have been like if it were Cass instead of Bernie?\" Anya said.\n\nWhen Natasha didn't answer Anya looked over and saw her thinking. Then Natasha spoke. \"Yes, I can. I hadn't before now, but I can and the frightening thing about it is that if we didn't have Bernie to compare him to, Cass probably would have seemed quite acceptable. The Dacha would still be here. Cass would have insisted that we concentrate on fixed wings so _Testbed_ wouldn't have been built and _Czarina Evdokia_ wouldn't be nearly finished. But we might have a couple of working one- or two-person airplanes with hand-built engines. The real difference, though, would be the sense of the place. Less freedom, academic or otherwise. Less trying to get the job done and more, as Bernie would say, trying to cover their asses. And we wouldn't even notice what was missing. We wouldn't realize what we might have had and Cass Lowry would seem quite a useful, if obnoxious, foreign employee. Without Bernie, the Dacha would still be of benefit to Holy Mother Russia. But it would have been just technical benefit. The subtle torch of freedom that Bernie lit in all of us just by being Bernie would be gone.\"\n\nAnya nodded, remembering a night when Bernie, Filip, and she had talked about freedom, slavery and serfdom. How many conversations like that had there been? How many quiet words and beliefs had Bernie Zeppi dropped like seeds into fallow ground, not because he intended to create a revolution but simply because of who he was.\n\nAnd what would Cass Lowry have dropped in place of those seeds? The man might be an up-timer in his origins, but he thought like a nobleman. Lowry believed, deep inside, that he deserved more and better than anyone else. From what Bernie had said, that had been true of him even when he was a teenager with no greater title than that of an athlete.\n\n\"You're right. Cass Lowry would have fit right in with the service nobility, and we never would have seen that there was a better way.\"\n\n\"That's what bothers me the most. How quickly the people here are giving up on that better way. How fast ivory towers can come down. Exchange Bernie for Cass Lowry, Mikhail for Sheremetev, and heaven is whisked away, with only memory of it making what we have now seem an annex of hell. My knight in shining armor arrived four years ago and by the time I noticed he was here, it was too late,\" Natasha said.\n\n\"We could run, you know,\" Anya said. \"I've done it before. We could go east to the wild lands. Russia doesn't really control Siberia. No one does.\"\n\n\"You ran away to Siberia?\" Natasha blinked her eyes in astonishment.\n\n\"No. I ran away to Moscow,\" Anya said. \"I wasn't even a serf. I was a slave. I ran and got lost in Moscow, found any work I could, anywhere I could. My point is we're a lot better situated now. We have money and can get or forge travel papers. On the other hand, you're an important person. I just had one slave owner looking for me. We'd have the whole government looking for us. We'd have to go farther.\"\n\n\"What about everyone else? What about Bernie and Filip?\"\n\n\"We could take Filip and Bernie!\"\n\n\"And everyone else? We could run. We could even take Bernie and Filip, perhaps a few others. But what about the staff of the Dacha? We can't all run. Not everyone would even want to.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Anya looked down at the bed they were sitting on. \"But we may not have a choice. I don't think Cass Lowry will change and I don't think Boyar Sheremetev will back away from supporting him, certainly not for me and probably not for you. It may be run or submit to Cass. And I'm not sure I could do that, not anymore.\"\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha knew that Anya was preparing to run, but took no action either to aid her or prevent her. Natasha couldn't make up her mind. In a way the Dacha was a very effective cage. Its bars were of duty stronger than high carbon steel. She couldn't abandon her scientists to Cass Lowry and Sheremetev. They had come here to work for Russia and all its people, to do good with their minds. Natasha knew that view was a bit simplistic, but it was true enough when it came down to it. So she stayed and worked and tried to protect the eggheads and the cooks. The philosophers and the gardeners. And died a bit as the dream she hadn't even known she was dreaming died around her.\n\nAs punishments for idle comments, \"wasting time on unprofitable hobbies,\" or lack of progress on one of Cass or Sheremetev's pet projects came down, she tried to act as a buffer between her people and their new masters. But it wasn't working. Four years can be long enough to learn freedom, but it's not always long enough for the lesson to stick. More and more the Dacha was reverting to the dog-eat-dog informer culture of the bureaus.\n\nMore and more Cass Lowry felt empowered and Natasha had to restrain Bernie and her armsmen several times. Even so, the only thing that kept Bernie alive was that Sheremetev wanted two up-timers at the Dacha. He had told Cass in no uncertain terms that Bernie was off limits. Cass had also been told that Natasha was off limits and that protection was effectively extended to Anya as long as she stayed with Natasha. The only way she had kept her armsmen alive was by ordering more and more of them out of the Dacha.\n**Chapter 74**\n\n**_June 1636_**\n\nCass Lowry was drunk again, Father Kiril noted with concern. So the Dacha, even the guards placed by Sheremetev, walked carefully. Lowry had poor control over his impulses even when sober. He had virtually none once he got drunk\u2014and, unfortunately, he was a mean rather than cheerful drunk.\n\nWith someone else Father Kiril might have tried to restrain the drinking, but Cass Lowry had made his contempt for the Russian Orthodox Church quite plain. Lowry seemed to consider himself above any church. All of which meant that when the American went on a drunken rampage, all Father Kiril could do was watch. So he watched and became even more concerned as Cass headed for the apartments of Princess Natalia.\n\n* * *\n\nThere was no warning at all. The door burst open and Cass came in, a bottle in one hand and a leer on his face. \"Get out of here,\" Natasha ordered. \"You're drunk.\"\n\n\"I sure as hell am. I'm also the boss and you've been forgetting the new order. Interfering with my administration of the Moscow Institute of Technology. That's a better name than just calling it the country house.\"\n\n_Not a bad translation of the Dacha's up-time usage,_ skittered through the back of Natasha's mind, while the part of her mind that was supposed to be figuring out how to head off the disaster that was Cass Lowry was blank as a new sheet of paper.\n\nHer rooms were being guarded by Sheremetev's troops tonight. She'd had to send too many of her own away from the Dacha to maintain a loyal guard all the time. They might restrain Cass if she called on them but the fact that he was here at all argued against it. She moved in front of Anya and Cass smiled. That was the moment she realized that Cass wasn't here for Anya. He was here for her.\n\nHer brain froze, not so much from fear as from simple confusion. He couldn't possibly get away with it, valuable up-timer or not, touched by God or not. Not in Russia, not even in Germany. Raping Anya or any of the servant girls, even killing one of them, he could get away with. But a princess of Russia? Even Sheremetev, perhaps especially Sheremetev, would have him drawn and quartered for the offense against all the nobility of Russia.\n\nThen he grabbed her arm and all doubt fled. \"Stupid down-timer bitch. You think there's any real difference between you and any of the other whores in Russia? You're all down-timers, whatever silly-ass titles you give yourselves.\" With his other hand he ripped open her dressing gown. \"Time for you to learn your place, _Princess_ , after what your guardsmen did to me when I first got here.\"\n\nNow he had a hand on her breast and she tried to shove him away. For just a split second it seemed like she had succeeded, at least in part. His hand left her breast and there was space between their bodies.\n\nThen his fist hit the side of her face. She hadn't seen it coming and it didn't exactly hurt, not yet, though it would later. For now it simply stunned her. She couldn't move, couldn't react when that same hand reached down and grabbed her down there.\n\n* * *\n\nAnya had expected Cass to come after her too, but she had been ignored as he went after the princess. Anya was a small woman, but she grabbed Cass' arm and got flung across the room for her trouble. Cass Lowry was a physically strong man, whatever else might be said about him. Anya had no more faith in the guards outside the door than Natasha did. Instead she went for the pistol in Natasha's bed stand.\n\nEven with a willingness to sacrifice some serfs to the project, Russia didn't have nearly enough fulminate of mercury to supply an army and the newer, safer primer that had been developed later had only reached Russia after it had reached the USE. So production was still quite limited. Limited, that is, when you're talking about providing percussion caps for an army. Not the least bit limited when it came to providing caps for a few hundred of the privileged of Russia. The Dacha had plenty of guns. Natasha's had been made by the czar's own gunsmith. It was a .36 caliber cap-and-ball revolver. By the time Anya had it in her hands, Cass Lowry had Natasha on her bed, completely exposed and was pulling his pants down.\n\nAnya pointed and shot. And missed at less than six feet. She was a good shot and practiced twice a week at the Dacha's firing range. But she was now learning how easy it was for even a marksman to miss a target in a real fight.\n\nFor a moment she just stared as Cass Lowry turned and looked at her, an expression of surprise on his face.\n\nThere were still five rounds left in the revolver. She aimed again, more carefully, taking that extra split-second to steady herself. At the chest, the best target.\n\nShe fired. Lowry staggered, as he tried to rise. Anya cocked the hammer, bringing another chamber in line. Fired. Lowry fell back on his buttocks, then leaned to one side, resting on his hip.\n\nBlood was spreading across his chest. His eyes were open but no longer staring at her. They were staring at the nearby dresser. Or possibly at nothing at all, any longer.\n\nThree shots left. Anya stepped forward two paces, brought the muzzle within six inches of Lowry's skull, cocked, and fired again. Blood, bone and brains splattered the wall behind him.\n\nTwo shots left. Amazingly, the man was not down; still lying on his hip, propped up on an elbow. His eyes were still wide open. Yet he had to be dead!\n\nShe cocked and aimed again.\n\nThen the guards came rushing in. Sheremetev's men looked at Anya holding the gun, Cass on the floor, and began bringing up their own guns. Big and clumsy old-fashioned snaphaunce muskets, though. Their employer was something of a miser.\n\nAnya turned and fired at the nearest of the two men. She was getting better at this. He went down with a bullet in his chest. She turned to the other guard and fired her last shot. He went down too, although she had missed her actual target. She'd been aiming for his chest also but the shot had been hurried and struck him in the throat instead.\n\nNo matter, he was dead or dying. She glanced back at Lowry. The American had finally collapsed on the floor and was now obviously dead\u2014even though his eyes were still open.\n\nAnya heard a little choking sound and turned to Natasha, who was looking around in shock. Anya didn't blame her. It had all happened so fast.\n\n* * *\n\nFather Kiril jumped at the sound of the first shot, then rushed to Princess Natalia's private wing. He was joined on the way by the princess' aunt Sofia.\n\n\"I knew it would happen,\" Sofia gasped. \"That, that . . . cretin!\"\n\nKiril knew who she was talking about. Although cretin might be a bit tame, in his opinion. \"He was drunk earlier, but I didn't expect him to actually come here.\"\n\nThey stopped and looked around the princess' room at the same time. Natasha was cramming jewelry and papers into a bag, urging Anya to hurry.\n\nSofia gasped. Natasha's face was reddened, as though she'd been punched and her dressing gown was in tatters. \"Natasha!\"\n\n\"Cass tried to rape her. And I shot him.\" Anya pointed at the limp form of Sheremetev's prize up-timer. \"Then they came in and tried to draw on me with a gun in my hand, and I shot them.\" She pointed at the guards.\n\nSofia's face paled and Kiril couldn't quite tell if it was the news about Cass or that Anya, a peasant, had been shooting up members of the service nobility. That didn't matter now. It was obvious that Princess Natalia was in shock. Anya seemed to be doing better but Anya had previous experience with violence.\n\n\"We have to get you out of here,\" Kiril said. \"And we have to do it now. There's not much time. It's only pure luck that none of the other guards were near the house.\"\n\n\"We'll need horses,\" Princess Natasha said. \"Anya and I can . . . can . . .\"\n\n\"Don't be ridiculous,\" Sofia said sharply. \"You and Anya are leaving, yes. But not on horses.\"\n\n\"But, but . . .\"\n\n\"I've heard Bernie's car roaring around this place for weeks,\" Sofia said. \"You'll take it.\"\n\n\"But, but . . .\"\n\n\"Neither of us know how to drive,\" Anya pointed out.\n\n\"So we wake up Bernie!\"\n\n\"We can't take Bernie!\" Natasha insisted. \"He'll be safe, if we can get away. Sheremetev won't hurt him. He needs an up-timer.\" She pointed at Cass on the floor.\n\n\"Bernie would follow you anyway,\" Sofia snapped. \"So stop being silly.\"\n\nKiril's mind was racing. \"And Filip. You'll want Filip.\"\n\n\"Why Filip?\" Anya said, then almost dragging the words out. \"He has a secure position here. It would be better if he stayed here where it's safe.\"\n\nFather Kiril smiled. \"For the same reason that we're going to send Bernie. He would follow you anyway. Besides, who do you think has been writing the Flying Squirrel pamphlets? Filip isn't safe here, not with the heat that will be coming down.\"\n\nAnya nodded, accepting Father Kiril's logic \"And Gregorii,\" Anya said. \"He's been working on our papers, just in case.\"\n\n\"And you, Father,\" Sofia said. \"All these children need an adult around.\"\n**Chapter 75**\n\n\"Wake up! Wake up!\"\n\nBernie was never at his best when shaken out of sleep. \"Wha . . . Who . . . ?\"\n\n\"Bernie, wake up,\" Natasha said. \"We have to go.\"\n\n\"Go where?\"\n\n\"Anywhere away from here.\"\n\nThat last comment woke Bernie up fully. \"Natasha, what happened?\"\n\n\"Quickly, Bernie. Quickly. I'll tell you on the way.\" He was half out of his room before his mind caught up with his body. \"All right, everyone stop. What's going on?\"\n\n\"We don't have time for this!\" Natasha said exasperated.\n\n\"We don't have time to skip this part,\" Bernie said. After four years of the enthusiasms of geniuses he knew well how easy it was for them to get excited and forget minor details like, say, shoes in a snow storm. \"What are we trying to accomplish? What can we do that will make it safer and more likely to work? What must we do that will prevent it from working?\"\n\n\"We're trying to escape! We can move quic\u2014\"\n\nBernie held up a hand. \"Escape to where? For how long? From who?\"\n\nAnd that brought everyone up short.\n\nFather Kiril quickly and concisely filled Bernie in on what had happened.\n\n\"Anya,\" Natasha added, \"had been working on just-in-case plans to escape to the east.\"\n\n\"Good thinking, kid,\" Bernie said. \"I figured on running west myself, but all the forces that would be hunting us are in that direction and that's the direction they would expect. So we escape to the east long enough to get away and figure out what to do next?\"\n\nThere were nods.\n\n\"We're escaping from the present government of Russia, not just Sheremetev and his goons since he's running things now. Which means we need to be as far and as long gone as we can before he realizes we've left. What about the radio?\"\n\n\"What about it?\" Sofia asked. But Natasha was nodding.\n\n\"We'll have to break it and in a way that will be hard to fix quickly,\" Natasha said, cringing a bit at the thought of destroying the best radio in Russia. \"Otherwise they will be able to tell Moscow what has happened in seconds instead of hours.\"\n\n\"But Moscow has its own radio,\" Anya said. \"We can't break that one.\"\n\nThey continued to talk as Bernie grabbed up two guns, a spare pair of pants and shirt, and a heavy jacket. \"I'll get the cash. All the money in the Dacha safe. Paper and coins both,\" Sofia said. \"Money is money.\"\n\nBernie went to check on the car while Sofia headed back to Natasha's rooms and the Dacha safe. Anya and Natasha went to get Filip and Gregorii and they all met back at Natasha's office, which had been soundproofed two years ago to keep the occasional booms, bangs and clangs of experiments from aggravating the boss. And which, just incidentally, had kept the rest of the Dacha from hearing Anya shoot holes in Cass and two of Sheremetev's guardsmen.\n\n* * *\n\n\"So how do we take the radio shack?\" Filip asked. It was more than a shack, though not much more. It had two rooms\u2014the radio room and a toilet. And there was someone always on duty in case there was a message from Moscow. There were six radio men at the Dacha, but only one was on duty at this time of night.\n\n\"Keep it simple!\" Anya said. \"Walk in, point a gun at him, tie him up and gag him, then bust the radio and leave.\"\n\nWhich is what they did. The guard didn't resist and they tied him up as much for his protection as theirs. They told him what had happened in Natasha's rooms and mentioned making a run for Poland and the USE. Between Filip and Bernie, they knew which bits to break that would take the longest time to fix. There were a couple of pieces from up-time that Vladimir had sent from Grantville; those they took with them. For the rest they took pieces and spares and hid them under junk in Bernie's garage. They really didn't want to break the stuff, just take it out of commission for a little while.\n\n* * *\n\nSofia elected to stay behind. The final tally of those going were Natasha, Bernie, Anya, Filip, Father Kiril and Gregorii. They would take the car. After they left Sofia would tell a list of people to run if they wanted to and to go to Natasha's estates, not to try to follow them to the USE. That way, if their judgment was wrong and some of the people were working for Sheremetev, they would lead the search west.\n\nThey hoped, anyway. Bernie was skeptical, since no matter what anyone told Sheremetev's people, the car was bound to leave tracks in the road at least in places. But maybe seventeenth-century Russian secret policemen were just as prone as the authorities he'd known back up-time to believe what they were told instead of their own lying eyes.\n\nThe first graying of dawn was in the sky when Bernie turned the key and the old Dodge started up. When they drove out the gate of the Dacha, the trunk was filled with money, weapons, ammunition and bits of irreplaceable tech. Bernie had also taken the time to hitch up a small trailer on which they were towing as many five-gallon cans of gasoline as they'd been able to fill.\n\nHe could only hope the jury-rigged hitch would hold, but he thought they'd probably need that extra gasoline. Bernie was more worried about the condition of the roads. The _rasputitsa_ was over, the notorious muddy season that made travel extremely difficult or even impossible on Russian roads for weeks during the spring and fall. But \"over\" didn't preclude running into some still-bad stretches if their luck turned sour. If they did run into such a muddy stretch, they'd lose the fuel trailer for sure and might get bogged down altogether.\n\nOn a more positive note, any pursuers would have the same problem. Mud wasn't any friendlier to horses than it was to wheeled vehicles.\n\nThe Dacha had started four years earlier as a largish house with a hunting park behind it and a tiny village in front. That had changed. Fencing and walls had been added, a canal had been dug that connected the Dacha to the Moskva River. The Moskva fed into the Oka, which fed into the Volga; which allowed goods to travel to the Dacha from all of Russia by river and canal. More buildings to house researchers and research had been added. The gate going from the Dacha proper to the villages was manned but not closed. As the Dodge approached, the guards waved for it to stop but Bernie didn't slow down at all. The car kept right on going and the guard who had been blocking its path was a bit slow in jumping aside. He was used to the speed of horses, not of cars.\n\nBernie winced as he felt the thump of car striking flesh. The guard was knocked aside and slid into the canal that flowed past the gate where he came to rest, his lower body in the water. Hopefully he was just injured. Bernie didn't have anything against the man personally. He was just doing his job.\n\nThen they were speeding through the village that provided support for the Dacha. The peasant inhabitants were just starting to wake up. Once through the village they were on one of the roads built by the scrapers over the last three years. Roads that led to Moscow to the west, to Murom and the Gorchakov estates to the east, to Ivanovo to the north and many other places. The road they were taking, as it happened, was the road to Murom and the Gorchakov estates. They could have carried more if they had taken a steam barge, but a steam barge would have had to travel either to Moscow or to Murom, which would have told Sheremetev where they were simply by knowing where they weren't.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie, of course, was in the driver's seat, Natasha in the front passenger seat. Father Kiril and Gregorii were squeezed into the back seat along with Filip, and Anya was seated on Filip's lap. Given Natasha's slenderness, that probably wasn't the most efficient placement. But even in the Dacha community, squeezing the princess into the back seat just because Father Kiril had a fatter ass wasn't going to happen.\n\n* * *\n\nBy four hours later, they'd gotten a hundred miles away. So the odometer said, anyway. That was far enough to stop and rest for a bit, while they considered their plans. Up till now, their \"plan\" could pretty much be summed up as _get the hell out of Dodge._\n\nIn a Dodge. Bernie started laughing.\n\n\"What is so funny?\" Natasha demanded, a bit crossly. There were disadvantages to having a slim build while riding in a car crossing bumpy roads and driven by a lunatic up-timer. Less padding.\n\nBernie shook his head. \"Ah . . . never mind.\" Even for Natasha, the cultural references were too complicated to explain under the circumstances. \"What do we do now? You realize we can't pass any guard checks.\"\n\nWhile their artist, Gregorii, had made himself a set of papers for travel when Anya requested a set for herself and Natasha, none of them had considered that Bernie, Filip, or especially Father Kiril, would have to run.\n\n\"Where do we ditch the car?\" Bernie asked. \"It's the only one in Russia, so there's no way it's not going to get noticed.\"\n\n\"The car will get us to my estates faster than any other possibility,\" Natasha said. \"Certainly faster than any pursuit. We'll pick up armsmen and decide where to go and what to do from there.\"\n\n\"You know what I'd really like?\" Bernie asked.\n\n\"No. What?\"\n\n\"I'd like to break out the czar.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\"\n\n\"We can't!\"\n\n\"Are you mad?\"\n\nThe uproar that caused just about caved Bernie's head in.\n\n\"Stop and think. Why is it impossible?\"\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"Too many armsmen.\"\n\n\"We don't even know where they are.\"\n\n\" _Stop!_ \" Bernie shouted. \"Think, dammit. One at a time.\"\n\nNatasha, being the person who outranked everyone else, said, \"We don't know where they are.\"\n\n\"How many places can they be?\" Bernie asked.\n\n\"Hm. Not all that many,\" Father Kiril said.\n\n\"So we get to your place,\" Bernie said, \"we call around on the radio and try to figure out where the czar is likely to be.\"\n\n\"Are we sure the czar wants to be rescued?\" Father Kiril asked. \"At the very least, he and his family are safe where they are.\"\n\n\"Are they really?\" Anya asked. \"Does Sheremetev really need them? Remember the Time of Troubles. No one worried about the various czars then, did they?\"\n\nThey spent the rest of the trip talking about how and whether they should attempt to rescue the czar.\n\n* * *\n\nBernie had been to Natasha's home before. It was more a palace than a castle, though some of the older parts had a significant castle influence. It was a large, walled compound on the south side of Murom. And it was quite improved over the last four years. It had indoor plumbing of a sort, at least in a few places. It had a water-wheel generator that kept charged a fairly large room full of lead-acid batteries. There were a few light bulbs, though they were neither all that bright nor all that long-lasting. Mostly the electricity was used for heating elements. Heating elements that could be turned off and on quickly and efficiently, for cooking and the heating of rooms while using little wood and producing less smoke. Still, it was an example of conspicuous consumption but about the least that a princess who was also the head of the Dacha could get away with.\n\nEven the Dodge had been there before. Once. To show off its existence to the citizens of Murom, with weeks of preparation and hoopla leading up to the visit. Now, about two-thirty in the late fall afternoon, the Dodge came roaring up the road, raising enough dust for a company of horse. If a company of horse could possibly move that fast, which it couldn't.\n**Chapter 76**\n\nLieutenant Boris Timofeyevich Lebedev, as it happened, was on the city wall inspecting the guard when he saw the dust cloud in the distance. One of the city _Streltzi_ whom he was inspecting told him what it was.\n\n\"It's a dodge,\" the man said. Then, seeing Tim's confusion continued, \"The magic vehicles that come from the future and eat burning naptha, they're called dodges. That must be the princess' dodge. Well, it's officially owned by the outlander from the future, but he works at the Dacha, so I figure it's hers anyway.\"\n\nWhatever it was and whoever it belonged to, it was raising a lot of dust and coming awfully fast. Besides, they had received no word that Princess Natasha was coming and they should have. \"Inform Captain Lebedev that we have a dodge approaching Royal Gate.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAs fast as it moved, Captain Ivan Borisovich Lebedev reached the gate before the dodge did. But it didn't give the captain all that much time to consider what to do. In Tim's experience if the thing approaching was something other than a drink or a young girl, his cousin took considerable time deciding what to do about it. But woe be to the subordinate who acted in advance of those decisions. This time, as it had so many others, the thing approaching passed before the captain made up his mind. It slowed. Two people in the front seats waved at the gate guard and it kept right on going, just as if it had every right to be here, not at the Dacha where it was supposed to be.\n\nThe captain, having failed to act in time to stop it, now followed after it, Tim following in his turn. By the time they got down off the walls, it was turning into the Gorchakov palace\u2014again just as if it had every right to. As it happened, the Murom radio was located in the Gorchakov palace. Why not? It was provided by the Dacha and the batteries to run it were in the palace. Until quite recently all the operators of it had been Gorchakov retainers. Where else would it be?\n\nIn the city hall seemed a good place to Tim, but moving it there was another thing his cousin Ivan Borisovich hadn't decided on yet. So it had stayed in the palace. They had put their own radioman in charge of all the other radiomen in the radio room.\n\nTim wondered if that worthy happened to be on duty at the moment as he followed his cousin toward the palace gates.\n\n* * *\n\nThe palace gates that had opened so easily to admit the Dodge failed, for the first time, to admit Tim and his cousin. They were informed that the princess was now in residence and they could not be admitted without her consent. That was especially inconvenient since they had been living there since they had arrived in Murom. By tradition, the captain of the Murom _Streltzi_ was a boyar's son, a retainer of the Gorchakov clan. Being a retainer, he lived in their palace.\n\nWhen the _Boyar_ _Duma_ had made cousin Ivan Borisovich captain of the Murom city guard, they had not specified quarters. So when Tim and Ivan Borisovich had gotten here, the Gorchakov's captain, one Vladislav Vasl'yevich, had been unceremoniously ejected from his rooms and sent to stay with the guards. Just one of so many things Tim's cousin had done to make himself popular with his new subordinates. Tim knew this was an unimportant post. Was supposed to be an unimportant post. But just at the moment, this post was starting to look pretty important.\n\nWhile Captain Ivan Borisovich Lebedev was still fuming and threatening, word reached the gate that the captain was to be admitted. And was to report to the princess post haste. So off they went, Tim trailing his cousin and both of them surrounded by Murom _Streltzi_ who were not hiding their grins at all well.\n\n* * *\n\nPrincess Natalia Gorchakovna looked stone-cold and somewhat miffed. Tim suspected that she was actually in a rage, but she was doing an admirable job of hiding just how much of a rage. Which was quite understandable given the recent events in terms of control of the Gorchakov estates. With Prince Vladimir in Grantville and Princess Natasha sequestered in the Dacha, control of the estates had fallen to estate managers who had proved less strong in their loyalty than might be hoped. Through bribes and coercion, actual control had shifted to the Sheremetev clan.\n\n\"Who, precisely, are you people?\" the princess demanded.\n\nIvan Borisovich, as was his nature, began to bluster. And Tim cringed internally. Tim had never had great respect for his older cousin and his time in Cousin Ivan's command had only made his opinion worse. The man was an embarrassment to the family.\n\n\"Captain Lebedev. My executive officer, Lieutenant Lebedev,\" Ivan Borisovich said. \"We were sent by Director-General Sheremetev and the _Boyar_ _Duma_ to reassert government control over Murom and the Gorchakov estates. How _dare_ you have us held at the gates? We are Great House.\"\n\n\"The proper form of that question is,\" Princess Natalia said coldly, \"how _dare_ you have us held at the gates, Princess? Your family may be great house, but apparently they didn't teach you manners. But see, the answer appears magically when you ask the question correctly. _Princess_ is how I dare! These are my lands, Captain. My city. My house. My people. The real question is what are _you_ doing here in my home?\"\n\n\"Who are you to question me?\" Ivan Borisovich said. \"You're supposed to be in your dacha.\"\n\n\"Arrest him,\" the princess said. \"And the other one, while you're at it.\"\n\nThe princess' men immediately leveled their guns at Tim and his cousin.\n\n* * *\n\nIvan Borisovich was an idiot when times were good. He was an even greater idiot when times were bad. Tim was grateful that he was being held in a separate cell, even though he could still hear his cousin's blustering, if dimly.\n\nUnlike Ivan Borisovich, Tim was a popular young man. Due to his actions at Rzhev, for one thing, and his much nicer nature, for another. So Tim wasn't entirely surprised when the young _Streltzi_ of Murom, Pavel, brought him some food and stayed for a bit to talk. He'd had long talks with Pavel before, while they were pulling guard duty.\n\n\"It's a terrible thing that happened to the princess,\" Pavel said.\n\n\"She seemed fine when she had me arrested,\" Tim pointed out.\n\n\"She barely escaped! That outlander\u2014the other one, not Bernie\u2014he attacked her! In her own bedroom!\"\n\nTim found himself interested, as the story continued to pour out of Pavel. Pavel wondered what Director-General Sheremetev was thinking putting a man like Cass Lowry in charge of the Dacha. Especially when it was doing so much for Russia under Princess Natalia.\n\nTim knew precisely what Director-General Sheremetev was thinking. His great uncle had told him. The Gorchakov family was becoming dangerous. Princess Natalia Gorchakovna had been using her position in the Dacha to garner support among the great houses. After four years, she had garnered quite a lot. Cass Lowry was the Sheremetev family's way of saying to the other great houses \"If you want high tech in the future, you apply to the Sheremetev family not the Gorchakov family.\" At the same time, Tim had met Lowry and didn't like the man. Pavel's description of the attempted rape of a princess seemed quite believable.\n\n\"How can you work for Director-General Sheremetev,\" Pavel asked, \"when he's doing what he's doing? Putting people in prison right and left? Killing all those people in Moscow in his purges?\"\n\nTim had begun to wonder about that himself.\n\n\"And what about Czar Mikhail? Taken out of Moscow! What kind of man does that, imprison the czar?\"\n\n\"No one is imprisoned. The czar and his family are just at a hunting lodge, to get away from the troubles in Moscow. He even took his up-time nurse and her family with him,\" Tim said.\n\n\"How do you know that?\" Pavel sneered.\n\n\"We get radio messages from him,\" Tim said. \"The hunting lodge he's at isn't on the normal network, so they radio through here.\"\n\nRussia had set up radio stations just within range of one another. Each one had a high antenna placed on a high hill or at the top of a tall building. There were normally two or three radio stations within range of each antenna, not that there were all that many yet. When a message was sent, it would be tapped out in the Russian version of Morse code and would be heard by the station the transmitter was tuned to. That station would then resend the same message up the line. This would repeat until the message arrived at the proper place. So the fact that they were getting messages directly from the hunting lodge meant that the czar had to be somewhere within twenty-five or thirty miles. Tim knew all that, but he didn't think about it when he told his friend Pavel that the czar's messages traveled through Murom.\n\n* * *\n\n\"So, he has to be somewhere near,\" Pavel told his boss. His boss, in turn, told the princess. And the princess, of course, told Bernie and her other friends.\n\n\"But Sheremetev doesn't have any lands within thirty miles of here,\" Natasha said. \"Not one village, not one house. Nothing.\"\n\n\"Do _you_ have a hunting lodge within thirty miles of here?\" Filip asked.\n\n\"Yes, just west of Tatarovo.\" Natasha stopped. \"You don't suppose . . .\"\n\n\"So we go get him?\" Bernie asked.\n\nVladislav Vasl'yevich, restored for now to his post of captain of the Murom _Streltzi_ , __ said, \"Not the princess.\" Then looking at Natasha, \"You should stay here where it's safe.\"\n\n\"No, my good and loyal Captain,\" Natasha said. \"I must go because it will fall to me to decide what to do if the czar is not, in fact, being held against his will.\"\n**Chapter 77**\n\nAn exhausted trooper rode into Moscow and made his way to the Kremlin. After a couple of misdirections, he reached Director-General Sheremetev and reported that Princess Natalia Petrovna had escaped in the Dodge with Bernie Zeppi, and some others. Cass Lowry had been killed, apparently by either the princess herself or one of her chambermaids. One of the guards had been killed and the other badly wounded. He'd been shot in the chest but the bullet had missed his heart. His survival now seemed likely, but so far he hadn't told them anything very coherent.\n\nDirector-General Sheremetev and a troop of his men left immediately for the Dacha.\n\n* * *\n\nSofia smiled to herself when she heard the uproar outside her quarters. She never had liked that Sheremetev brat, all puffed up and strutting the way he did. She sat quietly, waiting, knowing what was about to happen. She'd grown up in Russian politics, after all.\n\nAs she expected, there was no polite knock. Her door burst open, armed men stormed in, searched her room for what hidden dangers they imagined, then the man himself strutted in. Richly dressed, overbearing, and much too old to be doing this. Even if he succeeded, the stupid man would die, probably within a few years, as the next Time of Troubles began.\n\n\"Where is Princess Natalia?\" he growled.\n\n\"That's none of your business,\" Sofia answered calmly. \"Princess Natalia is Great House. You have no authority over her.\"\n\n\"I'm the Director-General. I speak for the _Boyar_ _Duma_ ,\" Sheremetev said.\n\n\"The _Duma_ has no authority over Princess Natalia,\" Sofia pointed out.\n\n\"The _Duma_ speaks for the czar.\"\n\n\"Let the czar speak for himself, then.\"\n\nBalked, Sheremetev stepped back and, somewhat more politely, asked, \"What happened here?\"\n\nSofia told him of the attempted rape and of Anya coming to Natasha's defense.\n\n\"A household servant killed two of my men!\" Sheremetev was outraged and deeply offended. More by the manner of his men's death, than the fact that they were dead. To die at the hands of a menial! It was desecration. He turned to one of his guards. \"Find that woman and bring her here.\"\n\nSofia tinkled a little laugh. \"Be my guest. If you can find her.\"\n\n\"Are you saying Princess Natalia took a murderess with her?\"\n\n\"She took her servant with her, yes. _We_ are loyal to those who are loyal to us,\" Sofia said, \"unlike some people.\"\n\n\"Take her away,\" Sheremetev told his guards. \"I'll decide what to do with her later. For the moment, take me to the radio room. I need to send a message.\"\n\nSofia started laughing.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What do you mean you can't fix it?\" Sheremetev demanded.\n\n\"We _can_ fix it, sir,\" the technician said. \"But not quickly. We will have to make new parts, which will take a couple of days.\"\n\nSheremetev was tempted to have the man punished, but the technician was the nephew of one of his supporters. He couldn't have him beaten with a knout like a serf. Yet.\n\n\"Back to Moscow!\" Sheremetev shouted. \"That's the closest radio.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAt last, and several hours later, Director-General Sheremetev strode into the radio room in the Kremlin and ordered that a demand for Princess Natalia's arrest be sent to all stations. The message went out, but because of the many stations it would be transmitted through, it would take still more time.\n**Chapter 78**\n\nAs Natasha, Bernie and the rescue team were driving away from the palace at Murom, a radio message came in.\n\nPRINCESS NATALIA GORCHAKOVNA WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH DEATH OF TWO MEN AT ARMS AND THE SEVERE WOUNDING OF CASS LOWRY. REPORT SIGHTINGS TO MOSCOW AND DETAIN. BY ORDER OF THE BOYAR DUMA AND THE DIRECTOR-GENERAL FOR CZAR MIKHAIL. END MESSAGE.\n\nThe radio operator was one of Natasha's loyal men. Alas, his boss wasn't.\n\nPartly out of fear, and partly out of greed, Petr Timofeyivich used the order from the _Boyar Duma_ and the czar to release Captain Ivan Borisovich Lebedev and his men.\n\nControl of Murom passed quickly\u2014but not firmly\u2014back into the hands of Sheremetev loyalists. This had very little effect on anything. Most of the people in Murom were keeping their heads down and staying just as far from politics as they could manage.\n\nA radio message was sent to Moscow telling that the princess had been spotted, but had left before the message ordering her detention had arrived.\n\nFor the next several hours, things were very tense in the halls of government in Murom. Captain Lebedev didn't even attempt to keep the lid on, raging around the palace. Lieutenant Lebedev, however, had made friends with the _Streltzi_ and urged them to wait and remain calm.\n\n* * *\n\nThe Dodge traveled slowly, pulling a down-time made trailer behind it. The trailer carried some twenty of Natasha's men at arms led by Vladislav Vasl'yevich. In order to avoid jarring the men too much, Bernie kept the speed down to around twenty miles per hour, and often much less than that. The thirty-two mile trip to the hunting lodge took three hours. It was evening when they approached the hunting lodge.\n\n\"You need to warn me before we get there, Natasha,\" Bernie said. \"We need to stop the car a mile or so away from the lodge and let the boys in back out of the trailer.\"\n\nA few minutes later Natasha told Bernie to stop. \"The path goes forward, then turns right. After the turn, you can see the lodge.\"\n\nBernie consulted with the armsmen, including one of her huntsmen who was very familiar with this particular lodge. \"How close can you get before you're spotted?\"\n\n\"It depends on who's doing the spotting,\" the huntsman said. \"If it was you I could tap you on the shoulder before you knew I was there.\"\n\n\"Maybe you better go scout for us then.\"\n\n\"I can do that.\"\n\nThe wait seemed to last forever, but it wasn't really that long before the huntsman came up behind Bernie and said \"Boo.\" Bernie grinned and turned to face the man. He'd spotted him well before time. The huntsman grimaced. \"So what did you see, Boo?\" Bernie asked.\n\n\"About a hundred yards east of the lodge, there are several tents and a paddock with maybe twenty horses. Considering the size of the lodge, I don't see how there can be more than thirty or so men, at most.\"\n\n\"All right,\" Bernie said. \"You and the men infiltrate. Natasha and I will drive in just like we own the place.\"\n\nVladislav Vasl'yevich started to object but was interrupted.\n\n\"I do own the place,\" Natasha said.\n\n\"Fine. We're the distraction, Natasha. Ride in like the queen of England, order them off your property. And while they're arresting us, the rest of these guys will get the drop on them.\" Bernie didn't have to explain \"get the drop on them.\" He'd already done that. Many times.\n\nAnd, in essence, that's what they did.\n\nBernie drove up to the house, with the horn blaring. Most of the horses in the area panicked. Half a dozen men came out of the tents and one man came out of the house itself.\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha emerged from the car, using her most regal manner. \"What are you people doing at my lodge? You're trespassing. Get out at once!\" Then, apparently seeing Czar Mikhail for the first time, she added, \"Except, of course, for Your Majesty. You are always welcome on my lands.\"\n\nThe czar was looking as shocked as anyone. But it wasn't he who spoke. It was a man Natasha had never seen before, who was dressed in a black fur coat with a silver dog's head clasp. Sixty years before, Ivan the Terrible had created a band of enforcers called the _Oprichniki_ who were recognized by their black fur coats and the severed dog's heads they carried. Later Ivan had outlawed them and made it a crime to even say the word _Oprichniki_.\n\nThis man and the six he had with him, also wearing the clasp, weren't the same _Oprichniki_ as Ivan had had. A silver dog's head wasn't the same as the severed head of a real dog. Still, the symbolism was unmistakable.\n\n\"You are under arrest!\" the latter-day _Oprichniki_ said.\n\nFeeling more than a little pale herself, Natasha turned to the czar and waved at the man in black. \"Did you authorize this, Your Majesty?\"\n\nShe was unutterably relieved to see the little, almost unconscious, shake of the czar's head.\n\nThe black coat spoke again. \"Seize them!\"\n\n\"Hold!\" Natasha shouted. \"You have no authority here and none over me! The only one who could give you such authority is right here and he hasn't done so.\"\n\nHer arguments went unheeded and the troops kept right on coming. Then she heard Bernie.\n\n\"Hey, Dogboy!\" he shouted. \"That fancy silver puppy won't stop a bullet.\"\n\nWhen Natasha looked, Bernie was holding a large up-time revolver pointed at the chest of the _Oprichniki._\n\n\"My men will kill you and the princess!\" the _Oprichniki_ shouted back.\n\n\"Could be,\" Bernie acknowledged rather more calmly than Natasha really would have preferred, \"but you will still be dead.\"\n\n\"They will be dead before then,\" came another voice, as calm as Bernie's but much colder. Looking over, Natasha saw that Vladislav Vasl'yevich had come out from the gap between two of the tents, followed by several of his men. All of them had their weapons raised and ready to fire.\n\nThe czar himself was looking a bit conflicted about the rescue. The dogboy still under Bernie's gun was looking very angry. But the confrontation was over, obviously. The man could be as angry as he wanted, he had no chance against the odds he was facing.\n\nSo, Bernie turned toward Natasha and began re-holstering his gun. But she was staring past him looking at Dogboy and the czar. Then her expression changed. Bernie turned back to see Dogboy pulling out a pistol of his own and pointing it, not at him or Natasha, but the czar. The czar was looking back at Dogboy with a half-frightened, half-resigned expression on his face. As though the fate that he had been dodging all his life had caught him at last.\n\nThen Vladislav Vasl'yevich jumped, knocking the czar out of the way.\n\nBernie fired, Dogboy fired. Vladislav Vasl'yevich went down, spraying the czar with his blood.\n\nDogboy went down, too. Wounded in the shoulder, not dead, but he'd lost his gun.\n\nA couple of the other dogboy guards took the gunshots as a license to resume hostilities, but Vladislav Vasl'yevich's men began firing at them immediately. Numerically, the two groups were about evenly matched, but the Gorchakov guards were equipped with the brand new AK4.7 cap-lock repeaters. The .7 modification was only partly to the gun. The center fire chambers could be fitted into a clip that was shifted right to left, one chamber every time the lever-action was opened and closed so that it was fire, cock, fire, cock. The dogboys, on the other hand\u2014with standard Sheremetev pecuniary habits\u2014were equipped with the cheaper AK3 flintlocks.\n\nIt was a damp day, too. The only dogboy gun that came to bear squarely on its target misfired. The end result was a simple massacre. After seeing Vladislav Vasl'yevich gunned down, his men were in no mood to take prisoners\u2014 _any_ prisoners, not just the two who'd raised their guns.\n\nTwo of the dogboy guards survived, but they were badly wounded. Meanwhile, another group of Natasha's guards had rescued the czarina, the nurse, her husband, and all the children.\n\n* * *\n\nThey questioned the chief dogboy who was, as it turned out, an _Oprichniki_ of the _Boyar_ _Duma_. __ So this was the form that Sheremetev's _political officers_ were to take. Ivan the Terrible's _Oprichniki_ had been his personal secret police and ultimately had proven to be more trouble than they were worth. But they had included many people who would, in later years, prove very important\u2014including Patriarch Filaret and Boris Godunov. So the _Boyar Duma_ , also in need of a force to put down dissension, had created an updated version.\n\nA contingent of that new organization had been given the job of guarding the czar. Their commander, the one with the dog's head clasp, was under orders to kill the czar, but only if it looked like the czar might escape. The same orders were in place for the czar's family, but only if the czar was dead first. The _Boyar_ _Duma_ didn't want Mikhail free and after revenge for a dead family. They didn't, even Dogboy insisted, want Mikhail dead. Just out of the way while they did what was needed to keep Russia safe from the corrupting influences that Mikhail and his father had allowed in. Russia needed a strong hand. The Russian people tended to become bandits and brigands if they were given too much freedom.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Look, folks,\" Bernie said after a while. \"This is all very interesting and I'm sure quite socially relevant, but is this really the time for a debate on political philosophy? They were going to kill you, Your Majesty. Maybe not now, but once they were sure of themselves. At best, they would keep you and your whole family prisoners for the rest of your lives. Meanwhile, the bad guys are after us and I don't want to stick around to find out what they'll do if they catch us. It's your country, Your Majesty. If you want to stay here and trust to the good offices of the _Boyar Duma_ , and that fink Sheremetev, that's your choice. But we need to leave.\"\n\nThe nurse, Tami Simmons, spoke up. \"We're going with you! I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but I don't want my kids here when these guys' friends show up.\"\n\nThe czarina agreed, and then so did Mikhail. So, the czar and czarina and their kids would ride in the Dodge with Bernie and everyone else they could fit would ride in the trailer. That still left half a dozen of Natasha's guards without transport. They took the horses in the paddock. All of them. They would need remounts and didn't want to leave the dogboys with transportation. There was serious talk about killing the dogboys. And as a sort of compromise, Czar Mikhail had them swear on pain of death not to serve the _Boyar Duma_ anymore.\n\nBernie didn't figure the oaths would last past the time it took them to get over the horizon, but he didn't really care either. Natasha's guardsmen were to make their way back to Murom as fast as they could and if Natasha wasn't there when they arrived, at the very least orders would be.\n\nBernie, the czar and the czarina talked as Bernie drove them slowly over the rough roads, fields, and trails back to Murom. And by the time they got there, the czar had decided.\n\nWell, the way Bernie figured it, the czarina decided and the czar went along. Mikhail Romanov didn't strike Bernie as the forceful type. The decision was that the czar, czarina and the children would go to Bor, take possession of the dirigible _Czarina Evdokia_ , and then decide where to take it.\n\nBernie thought about arguing for Grantville, but decided not to. The truth was, Grantville and its USE were now more of a foreign country to him than Russia was. To the extent that Bernie Zeppi felt he had a king\u2014not much\u2014that king was Mikhail Romanov, not Gustav Adolf.\n**Chapter 79**\n\nThey drove up to the palace at Murom, fat and happy, totally unaware of the changes that had taken place while they were off rescuing the king of the country and his family. The guards waved them through the city gate, then others waved them through the gates of the palace compound.\n\nNot until Bernie stepped out of the car did the guns appear.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Oh, crap,\" Tim heard the up-timer say. \"This couldn't just be simple.\"\n\nCaptain Ivan Borisovich Lebedev sneered at him. \"You are all under arrest in the name of the czar.\"\n\nThen Tim saw the other door of the dodge open and Czar Mikhail stepped out. Much to Tim's surprise.\n\n\"Really?\" Czar Mikhail said. \"I wasn't aware that I gave an order for this man's arrest.\"\n\nCousin Ivan Borisovich gaped at him. \"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the hunting lodge.\"\n\n\"I got tired of hunting,\" Czar Mikhail said, though Tim knew very well that he hadn't been hunting.\n\nThe up-timer started grinning. Cousin Ivan looked back and forth between the up-timer and the czar. The guardsmen and _Streltzi_ who had performed this ambush started looking at each other, trying to figure out what to do. Tim couldn't help but sympathize with them. The day had been a whipsaw, the Sheremetev clan in control of the city, then the Gorchakov clan, then the Sheremetev again. Then, when the Gorchakovs came back and were arrested by the Sheremetev in the name of the czar, out pops the czar himself to countermand the order. Of course, most of these men had never seen the czar, but Cousin Ivan had confirmed his identity. For that matter, Tim was starting to feel a bit whipsawed himself. He was a loyal member of his clan, but his oath was sworn to Czar Mikhail. Who was standing right here, denying that he'd ordered the arrest of the up-timer. Tim was fully aware that many of the orders that were given in the czar's name were actually given by the _Boyar Duma_ , but presumably the _Boyar Duma_ was acting _for_ the czar.\n\n\"You are under arrest by order of the _duma!_ \" Cousin Ivan shouted. For once in his life, Ivan Borisovich Lebedev had made a quick decision. And it had to be one of the worst decisions that Tim had ever heard.\n\nAll of which left Tim with nothing to do but make a quick decision of his own. Who did Tim serve? The family or the czar? Clan or kingdom? And the answer surprised Tim as much as it did his cousin when Tim pulled his pistol out, stuck it in his cousin's back and said, \"I don't think so.\"\n\nIn a strange way, the up-timers really were a corrupting influence on Russia. Before the up-timers, Russia had been, in Tim's eyes, anyway, an amalgamation of feuding clans. Now it was a nation. Becoming one, anyway. And it was that nation that Tim decided to give his loyalty to.\n\n\"Be careful, Cousin,\" he continued. \"If you say the wrong thing here and now, you will die with my bullet in your back. You do not arrest the czar of Mother Russia. To attempt to do so is treason. I am not a traitor.\"\n\nCousin Ivan went back to not making decisions. Probably for the best.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What do we do now, Your Majesty?\" Tim asked, once all the armed troops had declared for the czar and Cousin Ivan was on his way back to the cell.\n\n\"There is a dirigible in Bor. We will take possession.\"\n\n\"As you command, Your Majesty,\" Tim said \"And go where?\"\n\n\"That's a more difficult question,\" Czar Mikhail said. \"I don't want to abandon my people. And the political consequences of my leaving Russia would be extreme.\"\n\nTim nodded in understanding. Russia, in its way, was a very insular nation. Were the czar to move into exile in some other state, it would be awfully hard for him to ever come back.\n\n\"Well, that just leaves east,\" Filip said. \"Far enough east that it will be difficult for the Sheremetev faction to get their hands on you, but not so far that you can't return when the time comes.\"\n\nThey started looking at maps, trying to determine the best place to go. \"What about the people of Murom?\" Natasha asked. \"Especially the guardsmen and the _Streltzi_ , but, really, all the people, the factory workers and the servants. When we leave, will they be punished for letting us go?\"\n\nTim wished the princess had asked that question when there wasn't a mob of _Streltzi_ standing around to hear it.\n\n\"Set them free and tell them to leave,\" Bernie said.\n\n\"Order them to leave their homes and their town?\" the czarina asked.\n\n\"Leave it up to them,\" Bernie said. \"That's all you can do. You can't order them to be free, only offer it.\"\n\nFilip was nodding. Tim remembered Filip, from his two visits to the Dacha, as a sort of silly fellow, always talking math and theory. Yet here he was with the czar, the princess and the up-timer along with the blond servant girl discussing . . . Discussing what? Tim wasn't sure. The fate of Russia? The future of the world? Who were these people and how had Tim fallen in with them?\n\nThe blond servant girl, Anya, spoke up. \"That's the truth of it, Majesty. Freedom can be taken or it can be offered, but it can't be forced on those not ready to embrace it.\"\n\n\"And is Russia ready to embrace it?\" the czarina asked.\n\n\"Russia is not all one mind, Majesty,\" Filip said. \"If offered freedom, some will accept, others will hide in their holes waiting for a new master to come along. Still others will take it as license, as the Cossacks do, and try to become those new masters. All you can do is the best you can do. But I have become convinced that the gain in liberty is worth the cost in security.\"\n\nThe czar was looking at Filip speculatively. \"I'm not sure what it is, but what you just said reminds me of a pamphlet I read once. I think it was signed 'the Flying Squirrel.'\"\n\nFilip shrugged with a half smile. \"I read a lot, Your Majesty. Perhaps I read that pamphlet.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" the czar agreed doubtfully.\n\n\"So,\" Princess Natasha interrupted, \"we offer those who wish to follow us to the east a drink of freedom, and see who drinks?\"\n\n\"That'll work,\" Bernie agreed, \"as long as we can figure out where we're going. But it'll mean we have to announce where that is.\"\n\nThey went back to the maps.\n\nThe map they were looking at was a copy of one that had been sent to the Dacha, which was a copy of one in Grantville. They were fair copies, though. And features like rivers were clear enough. The place where the Ufa River . . .\n\nTim spoke up. \"We have a problem, Your Majesty, and its name is steamboats. Steamboats in the last two years\u2014but especially in the last year\u2014have increased the goods transported on the Volga. They kept us supplied at Rzhev and by now they can move armies. Small armies, but still armies. If we go near a river, especially one that connects to the Volga, and most of them do, it will be easy to send an army after us.\"\n\n\"We have two problems,\" the up-timer said. \"Contradictory problems. We want a place where those who want to can follow us and we want a place where the czar's family can be safe from pursuit.\"\n\n\"I wish my friend Ivan were here. He's better at this than I am,\" Tim said. \"He's stationed at Bor where they're building the dirigibles.\"\n\n\"Then we'll be seeing him fairly soon,\" Czar Mikhail said. \"As I said, it is our intent to take possession of the _Czarina Evdokia_.\"\n\n\"Well, then he will be able to help us. But what do we tell the people here?\"\n\n\"Send them to Ufa, those who aren't going with us. There's a fort there, built by Ivan the Terrible in 1574 and a town that grew up around it. It may not be where we end up, but it's a place to gather,\" the czar said. \"The steam barges can get there I know, because I took one to see it last year.\"\n\n\"Which means that Sheremetev can load an army on steamboats and take it there,\" Czarina Evdokia said.\n\n\"There is that, but I think we must take the chance,\" Czar Mikhail said. \"Perhaps Tim's clever friend, the baker's son, will have a better option.\"\n\nTim just listened as much as anything, shocked by the fact that the czar knew who Ivan was.\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha left them to work out the details and called for her factor, who was supposed to have been managing this part of her family estates.\n\n\"So, Pavel.\"\n\n\"Princess.\" Pavel looked uneasy, as well he should.\n\n\"You turned my estate over to the Sheremetevs. I'd like to know why. Did they pay you?\"\n\n\"Your Highness, they had all the proper forms endorsed by the _Boyar Duma_. To disobey would have been treason. They threatened me,\" Pavel said. \"And my family. What was I to do? Your brother has been gone from Russia for years and . . .\"\n\nPavel hesitated and Natasha thought that he was about to complain about her not taking a husband to manage the family's wealth properly. It was a complaint he had made before, several times. Pavel was a very capable man who had been quick to adopt the innovations and new industries made possible by the Dacha, which was why he still had the job despite Natasha's annoyance at his attitude.\n\nBut instead he just said, \"You were out of touch. And the work must go on. I had no instructions to the contrary.\"\n\n\"Very well. Give me a report on what has been happening since we last talked,\" Natasha said.\n\nIt was a long report and much of it wasn't very pleasant hearing. Many of the reforms that she had made under the influence of Bernie, and increasingly the influence of Anya, Filip and Father Kiril, had been reversed. The bonuses for good work and good ideas, the improved working conditions and pay, had been stopped and some of them had even been backtracked, treated as though they were loans, not payment, making greater debt that the serfs owed her. Then there was the diversions of funds, prices much too high paid to the Sheremetev clan for too little goods of too little quality and goods produced here sold to Sheremetev connections for kopecks on the ruble. \"Director-General\" Sheremetev and his greedy family hadn't chopped off the head of the golden goose, but they were halfway to strangling the poor bird in trying to squeeze extra eggs from it.\n\nAs she listened she was forced to a realization. She couldn't save it. The industrial base that she had been working to build here wasn't something she could defend from Sheremetev. Even the estates and lands that had been her family's for generations would be lost, at least temporarily, and the knowledge of that loss almost ripped the heart out of her. At the same time, this was strangely liberating. The family lands were gone, the serfs and other workers who made those lands productive would not be owned by her family, no matter what she did. The only question was who would get them. When it finally came, the decision to free her serfs from their ties to the land was easy. Better they should belong to themselves than Sheremetev, much better.\n\n\"Very well,\" Natasha said. \"There is a proclamation I must make and legal documents that I need drawn up.\"\n\nWhen the nature of those legal documents was made clear to him, Pavel had a fit. He explained that Natasha was a spoiled little girl and that no man would be so foolish, not even her idiot of a brother who married a peasant. He was, in fact, so angry that his thoughts about the innovations, at least the nontechnical innovations came boiling out. That she was wasting her family's heritage was clear. That the peasants that she showered useless and expensive gifts on would work harder with a touch of the lash instead. Natasha was tempted to give Pavel a touch of the lash, but she restrained herself. She needed to hear this. She especially needed to hear who else among her factors and agents felt this way.\n\nSo she listened meekly, like a school girl taking her deserved scolding. And Pavel, in his anger and desperation, poured out quite a bit she needed to know.\n\nThen she had him arrested.\n\nAnother clerk was called and the proclamations were drawn up. All the serfs on all the Gorchakov lands had all their debts to the Gorchakov family forgiven. They were, if they chose to be, released from their bonds to the land and were asked to join Natasha in the east where they would build together a new land of free people. Those who chose to stay on her lands were welcome to do so, but should be warned that those who would likely seize her lands were less likely to respect her decrees in regards to the serf's debts. Having had her documents written up, she took them off to be examined by the czar.\n\n* * *\n\nMeanwhile, the clerk who had taken down the documents took himself off to repeat their contents to anyone who would listen.\n\n* * *\n\nThe czar, the czarina, and his ad hoc _Duma_ of Bernie, Anya, Filip, Kiril, and Tim, listened to her plan with varying degrees of shock. Tim was flabbergasted and honestly thought it was a horrible idea. Not without reason. The serfs would run, some to the east following Natasha sure enough, but others into banditry among the Cossacks. And as word spread of what she had done, other serfs would run, hoping to hide among hers. The nation would collapse. Anarchy would rule and Russia would burn.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Filip. \"In fact, I suspect you're quite right. But it won't be better for waiting. Serfdom eats at Russia like a tape worm, sapping the nation's strength and killing its greatness unborn. And the longer we wait before seizing freedom, the less we will know how to handle it when we finally gain it.\"\n\nHe smiled, then. \"If nothing else, Your Majesty, you can form a legitimate Cossack state.\" Filip waved his hand toward the east. \"Somewhere out there.\"\n\nMikhail Romanov looked like he'd eaten something profoundly distasteful. Cossacks were outlaws, bandits, renegades.\n\nOn the other hand . . .\n\n* * *\n\nThe czarina, it turned out, agreed with Natasha and Filip. So, that possible obstacle eliminated, the czar cosigned and endorsed her proclamation and did her one better. He invited all the Russians who would be free to join them in the east at the fortress at Ufa. Then, for almost the first time in his tenure as czar, Mikhail made a speech. In the speech he didn't command, didn't even implore, but simply offered. \"Come with me to the east and freedom,\" Mikhail said. \"Come with me if you dare. Take every steam engine you can find and put it on anything that will float and follow me to Ufa. Help me build a Russia free of serfdom.\"\n\nIt wasn't a great speech. But it was the best Mikhail could do on the spur of the moment. Then they loaded up all the troops they could on the two steam barges that happened to be in town and headed for Bor.\n**Chapter 80**\n\n\"We forgot to destroy the radio,\" Anya said as the barge was steaming down the Oka toward the Volga and Bor.\n\n\"You can't think of everything. It was pretty wild in Murom when we left. It was looking like war was going to break out between those who wanted to follow us and those who didn't want to lose their homes and their businesses.\"\n\n\"Besides, Sheremetev knows we didn't try to go west, so he'll be coming after us and there aren't a lot of directions we can go on the river. If we ain't going upriver, we're going downriver.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Sir, sir! We need help!\"\n\nCaptain Ivan Borisovich Lebedev struggled out of his drink-sodden daze, trying to understand what this idiot was talking about. \"What? Let Tim handle it.\"\n\n\"But he's not here. He left with Czar Mikhail and all those people. And we've got fires in the city! There's fighting.\"\n\n\"Fighting about what? And why aren't the _Streltzi_ doing anything about it?\"\n\n\"But the _Streltzi_ are gone. Most of them.\"\n\n\"Is anybody still here?\"\n\n\"Well, you are.\"\n\nAnd that's when it finally penetrated. Ivan Borisovich Lebedev was in charge. Really, honestly, in charge. The thing he had tried to avoid his entire life had come upon him. He needed instructions. There was no one here to give them. That's when Ivan thought of the radio room.\n\nHalf an hour later, in the radio room, still hungover, with a half-dozen of what passed for the \"leading figures\" of Murom, all of them shouting at him to do something, Ivan told the radio man, \"Just report to Moscow what has happened here.\"\n\nThe key started tapping. The locals kept yapping. And Ivan's head kept pounding.\n\n\"One at a time! You, what's your complaint?\" Ivan said to a short, balding man with a pot-belly.\n\n\"The servants raided my shop and ran off! I want my goods back. And my servants back! What are you going to do about it?\"\n\n\"I'm going to have you thrown in the cells if you don't quiet down. Were these your servants?\"\n\n\"I was renting them,\" pot-belly said. \"From the Gorchakov clan.\"\n\n\"So these are some of the serfs that Princess Natalia . . . oh, my head . . . that Princess Natalia freed or whatever. What was all that about?\"\n\nAn older man with graying hair said, \"Yes, they were. About half the work force in this town were serfs of the Gorchakov clan that were shipped in from their estates to work in the various shops.\"\n\n\"So, basically, they had a perfect right to leave,\" Ivan pointed out.\n\n\"Of course not. We had a contract. The Gorchakov factor signed it.\"\n\nAbout this time there was an explosion outside. Ivan went to the window and looked out on a small town in flames. \"We've got bigger problems than missing serfs.\" He turned back to the radio operator. \"What does Moscow have to say?\"\n\nThe operator shrugged. \"The message probably hasn't even gotten there yet. It has to go through seven stations to get there.\"\n\n* * *\n\nBack in Moscow, Director-General Sheremetev was having his own problems. He had orders out to arrest Princess Natalia and Bernie for treason, and, thanks to the new patriarch, heresy. However, even four years after the up-timer's arrival, a single station going off line could stop the word from going out. Some of the steam barges and boats on the river system had spark gap transmitters or crystal receivers, but not all of them. Not even most of them. Which meant he had no idea where they had gone once they left Murom. And he was beginning to wonder if they had gone after the czar. Meanwhile, he hadn't heard anything from Murom in the last few hours and they weren't answering their radio.\n\nMurom was over two hundred miles from Moscow by road and almost four hundred by riverboat. Cavalry would take at least four days, more probably a week, to get there. Riverboats would be faster but would leave them stuck on the river once they got to Murom. Meanwhile, the Gorchakov girl was running around Russia, spreading disaffection.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Meanwhile,\" Colonel Shuvalov suggested, \"we should order the Nizhny Novgorod _Streltzi_ to arrest Princess Natalia and the up-timer.\"\n\n\"Are they dependable?\" Sheremetev asked.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Shuvalov admitted. \"I don't know who the commander of the local _Streltzi_ is and we haven't appointed a political officer to Nizhny Novgorod yet. We should have, but we've been stretched very thin. We have one in Bor just across the river, but that's because of the dirigibles. There may be some loyalty to the Gorchakov clan since the industry that is developing there comes in large part from the Dacha. How much loyalty that will buy is anyone's guess.\"\n\n\"Well, find out who is in command of the _Streltzi_ there. That should tell us something.\"\n\nIt took Colonel Shuvalov a few minutes to find out and it turned out that the _Streltzi_ commander at Nizhny Novgorod was a bureau man, not a _deti boyar_. Just a bureaucrat trying to keep his head down.\n\n\"Send the orders under the authority of the _Boyar Duma_ and the director-general, acting for Czar Mikhail, as usual,\" Sheremetev said. \"That should give us the far end of the pincer.\" Sheremetev drew a line on the map with his finger going from Nizhny Novgorod up to Kineshma then sweeping the whole hand back toward Moscow. \"Meanwhile, we need to get troops on their way from here. I want you to lead the cavalry contingent. And find me somebody trustworthy to take a couple of companies of infantry by riverboat.\"\n\nSheremetev drew his finger along the map again, this time tracing the Moskva River to where it joined the Oka, and on up the Oka to Murom. \"The riverboat will probably get there before your cavalry does. They will have farther to go, but steam engines don't get tired.\"\n\n\"I'll be on my way at first light then,\" Shuvalov said. \"Soonest started, soonest finished.\"\n\n* * *\n\nDawn came and the cavalry and the riverboats left, and still no word from Murom. They weren't answering their radio nor forwarding messages in any direction. That, unfortunately, wasn't that unusual. The radio telegraph links were new and didn't have nearly enough redundancy. Well, Murom did. It was the hub for its area because it had the greatest range and because it was the Gorchakov family seat. Which meant that as long as Murom was down, messages would have to go a long way around. So why was the Murom station not active? Sheremetev wondered. It made no sense. Had they gone back to Murom for some reason and if so why hadn't they been arrested?\n\nSheremetev didn't expect to hear from Colonel Shuvalov for four days. But, worried over the silence at Murom, he gave orders that all messages be brought to him immediately. He didn't think to mention that the _Boyar Duma_ no longer needed copies of the messages. And, honestly, it probably wouldn't have made any difference if he had. Selling copies of message traffic to interested individuals was a pretty obvious supplement to a telegraph operator's pay, and in Russia of the time a telegraph operator who wasn't selling copies was more likely to get fired than one who was.\n\nWhen the news came, it was from Murom. The clerk handed Sheremetev a stack of sheets that had been typed as they came in. He didn't mention the file copy or the three copies that had been sold to other interested parties. He also failed to mention that the sun was up or that there was air in the room. The obvious need not be commented on. They, the original, the file copy and the copies for sale were all typed on a special typewriter developed at the Dacha for use in the radio telegraph stations. It used the Cyrillic alphabet, but was all capital letters, because the more different code groups there were, the longer the code groups needed to be and the longer it would take to send any message. As had been explained to Sheremetev many times, but it still irritated him. However, that was a minor irritation compared to what was to come.\n\n* * *\n\nThe first radio message Sheremetev received was semi-incoherent. It talked about Princess Natalia coming back to Murom with Czar Mikhail, freeing all the serfs in Russia, and Murom burning. It made no sense. Sheremetev sent the radio man back to the radio room to call for clarification.\n\nThe clarification, when it came, wasn't very clear at all. So Sheremetev sent his own message.\n\nPRINCESS NATALIA GORCHAKOV IS A TRAITOR TO THE BOYAR DUMA AND THE CZAR IS BEING HELD BY HER UNDER A SPELL. SHE AND HER UP-TIMER ARE TO BE SHOT ON SIGHT. THE CZAR IS TO BE TAKEN INTO CUSTODY FOR HIS OWN SAFETY.\n\nHaving sent off that message, Sheremetev called in the new patriarch to endorse the fact that the czar was under a spell.\n\n* * *\n\nThe greatly enlarged group that had left Murom on two riverboats were in ignorance of these orders till they were halfway from Murom to the confluence of the Volga and the Oka rivers. But one of their boats had a radio on it and it picked up the clackity-clack of the message being sent from one riverside station to the next.\n\nAfter some discussion, they decided to stop at the next station.\n\nThey marched up to the station which was in a village on the side of the Oka river. The telegraph crew were a family of the service nobility, but the very lowest end. The village had five families and maybe twenty-five people. It supported itself by fishing and farming. The telegraph crew received the rents from the village and a small salary, which they used to support themselves. The mother, the father and the eldest daughter, as well as three of the serfs in the village, could operate the spark gap transmitter. A small steam engine ran the generator that charged the battery. When it broke down\u2014which it did frequently\u2014they made do with a foot-pedal.\n\nWhether they would have attempted to arrest the czar had they been in a position to, who knows? They were in no position to arrest anyone. There were four old-fashioned guns in the whole village. Instead, the czar had them send both ways along the chain his own orders. First was a repeat of Princess Natalia's proclamation of forgiveness of debt for the serfs tied to her family's lands and his offer of freedom for any serf that chose to join him in Ufa.\n\n\"But what about my serfs?\" complained the father, in dress not dissimilar to one of his serfs. \"How is my family to live without the rents?\"\n\n\"And yet the work of the station is done as much by your serfs as by you,\" Anya said. The messages went out, and with a further message. Sheremetev was not to be obeyed. Czar Mikhail revoked his authority and ordered his arrest.\n\n\"That's actually more than I have the authority to do without the concurrence of the _Boyar Duma_ and the Assembly of the Land, so I don't really expect those orders to be obeyed. But they ought to muddy the waters.\" And they did. The telegraph stations responded on the basis of personal choice. Some passed Sheremetev's messages and not the czar's, some passed the czar's and not Sheremetev's, some passed both, and a few passed neither.\n\nThe telegraph operators talked about what was going on. Most of them had been trained at the Dacha and most of them were of the upper end of the _Streltzi_ class or the lower end of the service nobility. They were free, not serfs. Not tied to the land, but they worked for a living. Their pay was a farming village or an income, depending on where the station was located. Most of them had moved to the place they now occupied because they had been assigned to it.\n\nUnanimity was noticeable by its absence.\n**Chapter 81**\n\nSheremetev was still furious over the news that the czar was with Princess Natalia and still discussing what it would cost to have the patriarch endorse his claim that Czar Mikhail was under a spell when a new telegraph message arrived.\n\nBY ORDER OF CZAR MIKHAIL, FEDOR IVANOVICH SHEREMETEV IS TO BE PLACED UNDER ARREST FOR TREASON AND KIDNAPPING OF CZAR MIKHAIL AND HIS ROYAL FAMILY. HE IS ALSO SUSPECTED IN THE DEATH OF PATRARCH FILARET. CZAR MIKHAIL INVITES ALL FREEDOM LOVING RUSSIANS TO JOIN HIM AT UFA WHERE NEW LANDS WILL BE GRANTED. SERFS WILL BE RELEASED FROM THEIR BONDS TO THE LAND AND THE FREEING OF HOLY MOTHER RUSSIA WILL BEGIN.\n\nSheremetev threw the message across the room and the new patriarch picked it up to read, while the boyar read the rest of the messages.\n\nBY ORDER OF PRINCESS NATALIA GORCHAKOVNA THE DEBT OF ALL SERFS ON ALL GORCHAKOV LANDS IS HEREBY FORGIVEN. ALL MY PEOPLE ARE INVITED TO JOIN ME AND CZAR MIKHAIL IN UFA WHERE A NEW FREE RUSSIA IS BEING BORN. I DO NOT REQUIRE THIS OF YOU WHO OWE ALLIEGANCE TO ME BUT OFFER IT TO YOU.\n\nThis message Sheremetev handed to Patriarch Joseph. \"These two, oh . . .\" Sheremetev paused, looking for a word vile enough to describe the two messages, then gave it up and simply said, \"documents spell the end of order in Russia. They are the death knell of our way of life. You must support me in this, Patriarch.\"\n\n\"Of course, Director-General. However . . .\"\n\nSheremetev listened as Joseph laid out the nature of the bribe he would demand in exchange for his support.\n\nThe word was already out. Dmitri Mamstriukovich Cherakasky, one of Filaret's long-time friends who had only abandoned the war party since the Ring of Fire, came storming into Sheremetev's office in the Kremlin, slamming open the door. Sheremetev would have been expecting him if he had thought about the copies of the dispatches that had gone to other members of the _Boyar Duma_ , __ but he hadn't.\n\n\"So the czar didn't willingly retire to the hunting lodge but was held there.\" Cherakasky sneered. \"I suspected that, but decided to give you your chance because war with Poland would have been a disaster, however well we did in Rzhev. But having him and his family, you\u2014you bumbling fool\u2014kidnapped him, then lost him. You're finished, Sheremetev. I'm going to the _Boyar Duma_ and you'll . . .\"\n\n_Bang!_\n\nThe sound of the pistol was loud in the closed room. Sheremetev swung the pistol to point at Patriarch Joseph. \"Forget the bribe. You'll support me or you'll be where he is now.\"\n\nThe guards rushed in and then stood there looking back and forth between Sheremetev and his gun, and Cherakasky bleeding out from a sucking chest wound on the floor, and Patriarch Joseph, who stood stunned.\n\n\"Petrov, who of these are trustworthy?\" Sheremetev spoke quickly, waving his gun at the other guards. The problem was that most of the _Boyar Duma_ 's guards owed their primary loyalty to the various boyars of the Duma, not to Sheremetev.\n\nPetrov didn't hesitate that Sheremetev noticed. Instead he simply drew his own pistol and pointed it at the official section leader. \"I'll need your weapon, Sergeant. You'll get it back after things are settled.\" He then gave quick, concise orders for two other men to take the weapons of the other three men in the detail. All the while explaining that it would be better for the disarmed men if they were in no position to interfere. \"No one can blame you for what happens after you're locked up, fellows.\"\n\nAfter the guards had been restrained, Sheremetev gave orders to the rest. Three boyars were to be arrested. \"Patriarch Joseph and I have a few things to talk over.\"\n\nAs Sheremetev was cleaning his own house in Moscow, the riverboats were carrying the czar, Natasha and Bernie to Bor.\n\n* * *\n\nIn Bor, Captain Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov, commanding the dirigible _Czarina Evdokia_ , __ got the message first and immediately ordered the arrest of his second-in-command. He privately rather liked Nick, but Nick was on the wrong side. He also ordered the arrest of the station commander of the Bor _Streltzi_ , who had also been a Gorchakov appointee. A man, as it happened, who outranked him, according to the new order of ranks that had been introduced since the arrival of the up-timers. But the new ranks didn't mean all that much yet, when compared to the traditions of Russia. What mattered was who you owed your allegiance to. Captain Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov owed his to the Sheremetev family, which meant the czar was on the wrong side, too. He prepared the dirigible for flight so he could provide tracking information and force the czar back into the hands of the _Boyar Duma_ where he belonged.\n\nRuslan Andreyivich over-rode the political officer, who wanted to have Nick and the former commander executed. He wasn't by nature a vicious man, just utterly pragmatic. Besides, after this had all settled out, he would be working with these people or their relatives. The less blood on his hands, the easier that would be.\n\nHe didn't arrest Ivan the baker's boy for two reasons. One, Ivan was too junior, and two, he was a Sheremetev connection who had gotten the post by virtue of his tie to Boris Timofeyevich Lebedev, so should be quite dependable. He considered promoting the lad to take Nick's place, but he couldn't. Ivan was, after all, the son of a baker. _Streltzi._ He couldn't be placed over members of the service nobility.\n\n* * *\n\n\"You know,\" Tim commented, \"when you came back to Murom, you didn't realize that word had reached the town to arrest you. But we can be pretty sure that word has reached Bor. They may think that we're heading directly to Ufa, but to get to Ufa by river we have to go right by Nizhny Novgorod and Bor.\"\n\n\"Do you think they will be ready for us?\" Bernie asked. He'd seen Tim in the war games at the Moscow Kremlin and had been impressed by the kid in Murom.\n\n\"I don't know.\" Tim said. \"That is, I don't know how they will be ready for us. What they will have done to prepare for us. By now they know we are on the river but some of the messages we picked up when we stopped at that radio telegraph station suggested that much of the _Streltzi_ from Nizhny Novgorod are out beating the woods looking for the princess. Getting the order to go into the field to the city that _Streltzi_ are stationed in is easy with the radio links, but getting the order to go back home to them once they are in the field is a lot harder. Unlike the up-timer radios, the spark gap units that we are building here are not portable. Well, you can put one on a riverboat . . .\"\n\n\"The strategic situation?\" Natasha said. \"Let's keep to the point.\"\n\n\"Sorry, Princess!\" Tim blushed. \"They may be able to get them back before we get to Nizhny Novgorod, but it's not that likely. So it's probably going to be about half the garrison at Nizhny Novgorod\u2014that's maybe a hundred people and we have almost that many with us. Nizhny's _Streltzi_ are pretty well-armed. I think they have the AK4's, that is the cap locks, but not the 4.7's which have the new chamber clips. So we will have a better rate of fire. That's brand new. Only the Gun Shop, the Dacha and your _Streltzi_ at Murom are equipped with the 4.7's.\"\n\n\"And a few hundred rich nobles who have to have the newest gun no matter how much it costs,\" Anya added.\n\nTim\u2014who was wearing the brand new six-shot revolver\u2014was spending quite a bit of time pink, to the amusement of the ladies.\n\n\"Anyway, we should have a better rate of fire for the first few minutes of battle if it comes to that,\" Bernie said. \"Got it.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I don't think it will come to that unless we actually stop in Nizhny. I think they will look at the boats and the guns and the fact that the czar is aboard and not shoot if we don't. Maybe.\"\n\n\"What about Bor?\"\n\n\"The same. If we don't bother them, they won't bother us.\"\n\n\"But we are going to bother them. We are going to go in there and take my dirigible,\" Czarina Evdokia said. Since it was named after her, she took a proprietary interest in the giant airship. \"It's completed most of its trials and we are going to need it.\"\n\nTim nodded respectfully. He agreed with her because it was the solution to one of the biggest problems facing them. The czar, or at least the czar's family, must be protected, out of reach of the _Boyar Duma_. But at the same time, they needed a place where people could come join them until enough had joined them to take the fight to the boyars. The dirigible would let the czar reach the hoped-for followers without falling into the hands of the _Boyar Duma_. They had the place to meet, but it was too easy for the _Boyar Duma_ 's troops to reach by riverboat. The dirigible, which the czarina wanted for emotional and prestige reasons, Tim wanted for tactical reasons. Which meant they had to get it.\n\n\"Captain Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov is a skilled commander, if not overly imaginative. He knows that the dirigible is of considerable military value. He discussed it with me and Ivan on the boat that took me to Murom. He understands its scouting value but doubts its value as a cargo or passenger craft. He'll be preparing to use it to track us for the _Boyar Duma_ but he won't think of us wanting it. At least, I don't think he will. Ivan, though. Ivan might consider things like the prestige having it will give us and he will certainly see the strategic value of being able to get effectively out of the boyars' range while still able to come in to strike them or recruit more forces. If I thought of it, Ivan has.\"\n\nTim had a tremendous advantage in that he knew the players. He knew Captain Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov and he knew Ivan. They had the same advantage when it came to him, except they probably thought he was still in Murom with his cousin. So how would they figure Bernie would look at things and how about the czar? Ruslan Andreyivich would probably not consider Princess Natasha or the czarina. He had a bit of a blind spot where women were concerned. Ivan might, but . . .\n\n\"I don't think Ruslan Andreyivich will be listening to Ivan that much,\" Tim said out loud.\n\n\"What are you talking about, Tim?\" Anya asked, and Tim realized that Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov certainly wouldn't be considering Anya's input.\n\n\"Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov is smart and capable and pretty open-minded,\" Tim said. \"But he doesn't think of women as thinking creatures and he doesn't really think of the lower class as thinking people, either. So he's not going to consider what you, the princess or the czarina contribute to our plans. He will think about Bernie and the czar; he'll probably think about the captain of the princess' guard, not knowing about Captain Vladislav Vasl'yevich's death. So he'll figure our actions based on that. He knows that Bernie is . . .\" Tim ran out of words. He wasn't at all sure of how to put what was probably going through Ruslan Andreyivich's mind.\n\nThe up-timer laughed. Well, snorted humorously. \"He'll figure I'm not an absolute coward but not someone that goes looking for trouble either. And sort of the same about Czar Mikhail.\" The up-timer looked at the czar of Russia like a friend, not a monarch, and continued. \"Sorry, Boss, but he'll think it even less likely that you will attack.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" said Czar Mikhail. Not like he was offended but more like someone touched by an old pain, a very old pain that had touched him many times before. \"Good but weak Czar Mikhail, of kind heart and weak will. I know how I am thought of and I often wonder if they are right. Perhaps they are. I didn't want to be czar. I didn't want to take sides in this business, either. But I was given little choice in either case. Very well, General Tim. What will Ruslan Andreyivich's beliefs about me tell him? Do not fear for my feelings. I've heard worse and we have more important things to worry about.\"\n\nTim tried. \"They will assume we will avoid a fight unless it's forced upon us. That's what the princess' guard captain would have recommended.\" It was also what Ruslan Andreyivich would see as Bernie and the czar's natural inclination. And he wouldn't be wrong. Tim didn't think it was actual cowardice on the part of either Bernie or the czar. But they had kind hearts, perhaps even soft hearts. Not so the women. The czarina, the princess, and the servant girl sat in the royal _duma_ like hungry lionesses. Worse, angry lionesses. The gentle hearts of the men might seek peaceful resolution of conflicts, but the women wanted blood.\n\n\"So,\" said the czarina, \"we look like we are sailing on by for as long as we can, then we attack them as fast as we can.\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Majesty. That is what I recommend and if Ruslan Andreyivich doesn't listen to Ivan, it just might work.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"No, Ivan,\" said Captain Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov. \"It's a worthy thought and I thank you for it. But it's not in the czar's character nor in the up-timer's. If it was Cass Lowry with the princess, maybe. He would want to charge in, and might even convince her guard captain that it was the best move. But not Bernie and not the czar. They will be looking for a place where they can hide and negotiate. Ufa's not a bad place for that. Though, I suspect the czar has underestimated the effect of the steamboats.\"\n\nIvan wanted to argue. He was eighteen, after all. But he was a soldier and he owed much of his present position to the patronage of his friend Tim's family. The captain not only outranked him in military terms but in social terms as well. Besides, the captain had a point. Taking the dirigible would be a considerable risk. Ivan would try it if it were him, but it wasn't him making the decision. And the captain had another point. They needed everyone working on the dirigible. It would be called upon soon. Either to follow the czar and report on his whereabouts or to ferry the boyars out here. Possibly both. So he let the matter drop.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Ivan agreed. \"The forward right side engine bushing replacement is going slowly, but the other three engines are fine and the propeller cowlings are providing extra force. The spark gap radio is still not working and I think we are going to need it. But . . .\" Ivan continued his report.\n**Chapter 82**\n\nFrom Murom to the confluence of the Oka and Volga rivers is about a hundred and thirty miles. They had left Murom at about eight in the morning as the sun was coming up. They had stopped for an hour at the telegraph station. However, they were going downriver, which gave them an extra two miles per hour. So they reached Nizhny Novgorod just before sunset.\n\nThe riverboat\u2014more of a barge actually\u2014was flat-bottomed and most of the time carried cargo. It carried quite a bit of cargo now and Czar Mikhail stood on top of the boxes for freight and waved to the people of Nizhny Novgorod as they went by.\n\nNot knowing what else to do, the guards on the walls waved back. There was no question of shooting. The czar's face was on every ruble note in Russia and there were a lot of notes. There were also a fair number of telescopes by now, and some of them were owned by the citizens of Nizhny Novgorod. The man standing on a box of freight and waving at them was indeed Czar Mikhail and many of the guards on the wall bowed.\n\nThe barge and the one following it rounded the bend into the Volga, turning east, and kept going, with the czar of all Russia continuing to wave. The ship was drifting to the north side of the river as it reached the tributary that led to Bor, only a mile or so away. Casually, it turned into that tributary and the czar kept waving. Now he waved to the workmen from the dirigible station. The men and women who had built the dirigible _Czarina Evdoka_ now got to see the real thing, for the czarina had climbed up onto the box beside her husband in full royal regalia and was waving as well. There were even a few cheers.\n\nWhatever silly thing they were doing, it wasn't attacking. You don't attack a place by standing in the open in plain sight and waving like a silly idiot. But sometimes you might divert attention from an attack by standing on a box and waving . . . if the circumstances are just right.\n\nThe barge the czar was on went right on by the dock at Bor, but the barge behind it didn't. It hit the dock a little hard and the troops aboard it were almost jarred off their feet. They would have but for the captain's warning at the last minute.\n\n\" _Move!_ \" came the very carrying squeak of young Lieutenant\u2014now General\u2014Lebedev.\n\n* * *\n\nIvan had heard that squeak before. His friend's voice tended toward the falsetto when he was excited. And suddenly he knew. He knew that the czar was here to take the dirigible, that Tim for whatever reason was on the czar's side. And he knew. Knew for a certainty that he could stop him if he moved now.\n\nAnd he froze.\n\nIvan had the vice of his virtues. General Sherman's vice. The vice of a very smart man who, when taken unaware, will tend to overthink the problem rather than act when action is what is needed. It was why, in another universe, Sherman would be Grant's subordinate, not the other way around. And that\u2014not any silliness about good blood or bad blood, not even the accident of fate that had put Tim in the right place\u2014was what made Tim, not Ivan, the czar's general. Whose side was Ivan supposed to be on? Tim was on the czar's, but Tim's family was on the boyars'. Ivan could see in his mind what he had to do to stop Tim's attack and what he could do to aid it and did neither. Not because he lacked courage or even moral courage. But because he needed time to think things through when they hit him out of the blue.\n\n* * *\n\nCaptain Ruslan Andreyivich Shuvalov didn't have that flaw, but he didn't understand what was going on either.\n\n\"What the devil is he doing?\" Ruslan wondered. The czar was sailing by, waving at everyone, and most of Ruslan's people were watching him do it.\n\nThere was some minor disturbance down at the docks, but what did Czar Mikhail think he was doing?\n\nIt took Ruslan minutes he didn't have to realize . . . \"Oh my God. He's the decoy! The czar of all Russia has let himself be used as a decoy!\" And the decoy had succeeded. He'd locked Ruslan's attention away from where it was needed.\n\nAt that point, Ruslan raised his rifle and sighted on Czar Mikhail. Then he stopped. It wasn't because his target was the czar. At least not mostly. It was respect for the czar all right, but for the czar as a man. A man he had always thought of as good, but never until that moment thought of as brave.\n\nInstead, finally, minutes too late, Ruslan turned to try to save his command. Grabbing a dozen men who happened to be standing near him watching the czar and the czarina wave from their barge, he shouted \"Follow me!\" and ran for the attackers.\n\n* * *\n\n\"On me!\" Ruslan shouted, blinking into the setting sun's glare. \"Push them back onto their boat!\"\n\nAnd he fired into the crowd of soldiers quick-marching up the street from the dock.\n\n\"Keep moving,\" Ruslan heard a high, squeaking voice shout as he pulled the chamber from his AK4 and stuck it in his pocket. He pulled another chamber out, and looked up as he inserted it into the rifle. \"Fire, fire!\" he shouted. And his men did, all twelve of them.\n\nSome of their rounds hit, for he saw men fall. But then that high, squeaking voice came again.\n\n\"Column halt! First rank, kneel! First and second rank, ready your weapons.\" And the first and second ranks, at least thirty men, leveled their rifles at his scratch troop.\n\n\"Aim!\"\n\nAnd Ruslan heard his men turn and start to run. Ruslan looked back, looked at the troops across the street, then followed his men. Then the high, squeaking voice again. \"Fire!\"\n\nThat was the last he knew.\n\n* * *\n\nIt was the ricochet that brought Ivan out of his frozen state. He couldn't change sides this fast. He just couldn't. But he also couldn't fight his friend Tim and the Czar of Holy Mother Rus. _So what can I do_? he wondered. _I can get Nick._ Nick had been a friend since Ivan arrived, even though Ruslan had taken command on their arrival. Nick hadn't held that against Ivan. He hadn't even held it against Ruslan. And Nick was someone Ivan could talk to, so it was to Nick, not Ruslan, that Ivan went.\n\n* * *\n\nWith ninety percent of the inhabitants of Bor still gawking at the czar and his family, mopping up took much less time than Tim had thought it would. Even with one of his men dead and three wounded, he was able to get the column moving quickly, by leaving the wounded under the command of Filip, who had a flesh wound of his own.\n\nOnce they reached the hangar, his men came to a halt without orders. Tim had heard how big the _Czarina Evdokia_ was, but hearing and seeing were not the same. He spent several minutes assigning guards and trying to figure out _where_ to assign guards. While he was still in the process of this, he saw Ivan and Nick approaching.\n\n* * *\n\nIvan had run to the hangar because that was where Nick was being held, only to find David Sikorski, the _Oprichniki_ assigned to this force, already there, getting ready to shoot Nick on the basis of \"we're in trouble and the only thing to do with prisoners is to kill them.\" This was only one of the many obnoxious things the little man had said over the months they'd been assigned here.\n\nIvan talked him out of killing Nick by pulling his own pistol\u2014a gift from Tim as it happened\u2014and pointing it at David's head. \"I find I disagree with your position on killing prisoners when in dire circumstances.\"\n\n\"I have my orders,\" David said.\n\n\"I have my gun,\" Ivan pointed out.\n\nNick started to laugh. \"I think gun trumps orders.\" Before David could move, Nick had pulled the pistol out of his hands.\n\nDavid looked at Nick, then looked at Ivan, then ran. Ivan considered shooting him, fairly seriously, but he just couldn't bring himself to shoot an unarmed man in the back. And, apparently, neither could Nick.\n\n\"So, Ivan,\" Nick said, \"what's been happening?\"\n\n\"Czar Mikhail has arrived,\" Ivan said. \"Sort of. He's out in the middle of the channel.\"\n\n\"This I have to see.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"Ivan, Nick, come over here.\" Tim couldn't help smiling as he recognized his friends.\n\n\"Have you heard anything about Princess Natalia?\" Nick asked. \"I've been worried ever since they arrested me.\"\n\n\"She's on the barge with Czar Mikhail,\" Tim said. \"They'll land as soon as we're secure here.\"\n\n\"And then what?\" Ivan asked.\n\n\"That depends, Ivan. What's the status of the _Czarina Evdokia_?\"\n\n\"Mostly ready to fly. Certainly it can be made ready to fly by morning.\"\n\n\"Very good, then. Czar Mikhail and Czarina Evdokia are going to take possession of their dirigible,\" Tim said. \"Nick will be placed in command and you can be my assistant.\"\n\nAnd that's how Ivan came to defect, albeit accidentally.\n\nIt took a few more minutes to settle things, and Ivan got another shock when someone referred to Tim as \"General.\"\n\n* * *\n\n\"That's the signal,\" Czar Mikhail said. The captain of the boat nodded and waved. There was a change in the sounds of the engines and the barge started backing up. It took a few more minutes and another change in direction to get the cargo barge docked.\n\nThe crowd followed the barge, and Czar Mikhail and Czarinia Evdokia continued to wave to them. As the crowd poured onto the docks, Bernie got a bit nervous. The czar was the czar, after all, and a crowd like that could have assassins sprinkled though it. Or just the random nutcase. Even if it didn't, crowds were notorious for changing moods when they didn't get precisely what they wanted. They should have had the docks guarded before they called the barge in. More poor planning. It came, Bernie knew, from lack of real experience. Unfortunately, most of the real experience was on the other side.\n\nBut the czar carried it off. He waved, he shook hands, patted people on the back, and these weren't pushy fans at a rock concert. They were working Joes, seeing their monarch mostly for the first or maybe second time in their lives. They didn't want to hurt him or the czarina. Just being noticed was a big deal. They got through the crowd and the people followed them as they walked up the dock to the shore and then up the street toward the hanger complex where the big dirigibles were built. It was a massive building, a cathedral of the air.\n\nImpressive, but not pretty. An example of brute force and the massive investment of labor filling in the gaps of knowledge. But it stood, and it held a massive airship and the parts to make another. Finally, when they reached the hangar, the czar's forces noticed and stopped the crowd, politely but firmly explaining that the czar and czarina needed to talk to their advisers.\n\n* * *\n\nIn the massive hangar where Czarina Evdokia met her namesake, there was quiet. Tim, Nick, Tim's friend Ivan, Filip Pavlovich, and a grizzled old _Streltzi_ who had effectively become Tim's sergeant major, were standing around talking quietly. They looked over at the new arrivals and started in their direction.\n\nThat was apparently when Anya noticed that Filip had been wounded because suddenly she was gone, moving like lightning to Filip's side.\n\nWhen Bernie got there, Nick and Tim were watching the scene, while Anya, oblivious to them all, fussed over the slightly wounded Filip, who was eating it up.\n\n\"I'm an astronaut or the closest thing Russia has in this century,\" Nick said, in a tone of profound disgust. \"And a war hero.\"\n\n\"I'm a war hero too, and the youngest general in the history of Russia,\" Tim agreed. \"Even if the czar only gave me the rank because he didn't have an army to give me.\"\n\n\"And who gets the girl?\"\n\n\"The nerd!\" they said together in a harmony of disgust.\n\n\"What is the world coming to?\" Bernie agreed, amused.\n\n* * *\n\nA few hours later, with Anya still fussing over Filip, they got down to business.\n\n\"Somebody tell me, please,\" Nick whined, \"why we're going to Ufa. It's the back of beyond.\"\n\n\"Because we need a place that's far enough out that it will be difficult for Sheremetev to just roll over it.\"\n\n\"Ufa is on a river,\" Ivan pointed out. \"Doesn't sound safe to me.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" Tim said. \"But who says we're going to stay in Ufa? It's just a . . . staging area. Well, not just a staging area. Ivan the Terrible built a fort there, you know. And it's about as far upriver as you can go in one of the steam barges. You can get a little past it, yes, but it's the last fortified position out that way. If we were to stop, say, at Nizhny Novgorod, one, Sheremetev would have to come after us. And two, it would be real easy for him to get here.\"\n\nIvan nodded. \"That's true. So what you want to do is use Ufa as your border with Old Russia.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" Czar Mikhail said. \"Meanwhile, we will find a place that is difficult to reach save by dirigible and build a safe haven there. So what we want to do is ship as much to Ufa as possible by boat and barge, and then from Ufa we'll take what we have to on to . . . whatever place we find. That's the basic outline. The details will have to be filled in as we go along. That will be Tim's job. And yours.\"\n**Chapter 83**\n\n\"Because you must!\" David Sikorski shouted. \"The _Boyar Duma_ has ordered the arrest. Director-General Sheremetev wants these people stopped!\"\n\n\"One of those _people_ ,\" the commander of the Nizhny Novgorod _Streltzi_ snarled, \"is the czar of Holy Rus. And if he wants to go, I'm letting him go.\"\n\nDavid pulled out his emergency pistol. \"The patriarch has proclaimed that the czar is under a spell!\"\n\n\"Didn't look like it to me,\" the commander said.\n\n\"Can you imagine Czar Mikhail standing on a barge, waving to peasants? Of course he was under a spell! Send a radio message. You'll get confirmation from Moscow.\" David rubbed his eyes. It had not been a good evening so far.\n\nAfter making his way to the Volga River, stealing a rowboat, rowing across the river, and having to walk a mile back to Nizhny Novgorod, he had to deal with these uncultured cretins. He had bribed his way into the commander's office and had some support among the officers. Much of the service nobility was unhappy with the changes that Czar Mikhail had proclaimed since his escape from the hunting lodge. The loss of serfs would ruin some of these men and probably do some harm to all of them.\n\n\"Just listen to me,\" David finally got out. \"What the czar is being forced to do will destroy all order in Russia. We'll be back to the Time of Troubles. Radio Moscow. There will be great rewards for those who support me in this.\"\n\nAnd they did. It took most of the rest of the night, but by the next morning David had his force. It was barely two hundred men, perhaps fifty of the service nobility and one hundred fifty of the _Streltzi_.\n\nThe next morning at the docks, they loaded up the ferry that ran to and from Nizhny Novgorod and Bor, and began taking men across the river.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Don't overload her!\" Nick shouted. \"I know she's big, but she's not a boat!\"\n\n\"Are you sure this thing is safe?\" Tami Simmons muttered to Bernie. \"I don't want my husband and kids, not to mention me, falling out of the sky.\"\n\n\"Safer than any airplane in this century,\" Bernie said. \"And that guy over there is probably one of the most experienced dirigible pilots in the world.\"\n\n\"And just how much experience are we talking about?\"\n\nBernie shrugged. \"Not a lot. Maybe two hundred hours. But he's the best we've got, and that's the quickest way out.\"\n\n\"Maybe we ought to take the steamboat,\" Gerry Simmons said.\n\n\"Okay by me,\" Bernie said. \"But you're the ones who have to talk to the czar and czarina about it.\"\n\n\"Well, scratch that idea,\" Tami sighed. \"Alexsey is running a little fever.\"\n\n\"Troops!\" someone shouted. \"Troops landing!\"\n\n\"Landing where?\" Bernie shouted back.\n\n\"On the banks of the Volga,\" said Petr Kadian, one of the Gorchakov _deti boyars_. \"That way!\" He pointed.\n\nTim headed for him. \"How many? What strength?\"\n\n* * *\n\nTim followed Petr Kadian down the street to where he could see the troops forming up down by the river, though forming up seemed rather a generous overstatement of the sort of milling mob that was down by the river. Part of that feeling was because Tim was a professional. Not a very old or experienced one, but a professional nonetheless. Part of it was that he was still very young and most of his experience was with game pieces, not men.\n\nAll of which didn't mean that Tim wasn't right. The force that David had raised in Nizhny Novgorod was only partly _Streltzi_ and not the better part of Nizhny Novgorod's _Streltzi._ They were filled out by peasants who had very little training. If they had been defending their city walls, they would have been fine. If they had been called up to fight off an invasion with time to get used to the idea, they might have done all right. But they had been drafted into a scratch force to go arrest the czar\u2014and in one night. They weren't sure if they should be obeying this stranger, whatever the radio telegraph said. Why should they trust the radio? It was new, it was a device, not a person they knew. They had seen the czar standing on a steam barge just the day before. They liked him. He had waved to them and so had the czarina. They really wished that political officer from Bor had just, well, stayed in Bor and not bothered them.\n\nSo they milled around, argued about where to stand and who was in front and who was behind in the line of march, and hoped that they would be too late. Tim didn't know that was what was happening. He wasn't experienced enough to know what was happening just by looking, but he was bright and had the right instincts. There was something very weak-looking about the force he was facing. He didn't know what it was, but he could feel it. It was a big force. Almost twice as big as he had been expecting, something like two hundred men. But they didn't have the AK4's he'd been expecting. Two-thirds of them didn't even have AK3's; they had old match-lock muzzle-loaders. \"Come on. Let's form the men up,\" he said to Petr Kadian.\n\n* * *\n\nThat proved unnecessary. By the time they got back to the hangar, Ivan had the men they had brought with them from Murom formed up with the help of Princess Natasha's more experienced guardsmen.\n\n\"So what do we do, General?\" Ivan asked, with a grin.\n\nTim thought about it. The land between the river and the town was open; muddy bank fading to grassy field to streets and buildings. His force was outnumbered, but at the same time each of these people had sat down with the czar, the czarina, and Princess Natasha. They had talked with Bernie and Filip and they were volunteers who knew what they were fighting for. They could sit in the town and fight from behind the buildings. It would work, but it would get a lot of people killed. _No, that isn't the way._\n\n\"We'll march out to meet them.\"\n\nIvan gave him a look and Petr Kadian asked, \"Why?\"\n\n\"You saw them,\" Tim said, still trying to figure out exactly what he had noticed about the invaders.\n\nPetr Kadian nodded.\n\n\"Well, how did they look to you?\"\n\nPetr Kadian was by no means a military genius, but he had served the Gorchakov clan as an armsman and retainer for near twenty years. He had seen armies and he had seen battles. He had seen fierce resistance to overwhelming odds and armies coming apart in the face of a light breeze. He hadn't noticed it when he was out there looking at the opposing force because it wasn't his job to notice that sort of thing. But now that the boy general brought it up, he realized that those fellows out there were . . . \"A rout waiting to happen, sir.\"\n\nThat was what Tim had seen without quite knowing why.\n\nIvan, now that it had been explained, knew why. \"We want them to see each other run.\"\n\n\"More importantly, we want them to see that we won't,\" Tim said. \"We want them to see us as a real army. The czar's army. Small maybe, but real.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThey marched out in two columns with sergeants counting cadence loudly. When they were a little over one hundred yards from the still-milling mob from Nizhny Novgorod, they made a right turn and the columns stretched out into lines. Finally Tim called them to halt, then shouted, \"Left, face!\"\n\n\"Dress ranks!\" Tim carefully paid no attention to the mob from Nizhny Novgorod as he watched the men dress their ranks, then as he walked down the line, commenting on uniforms and weapons. It wasn't a bluff. Tim was quite sure these men would slaughter the mob they were facing. And it wasn't a matter of bravery. Tim wasn't sure how to put what it was. But he never would consider doing this if he were facing Sergeant Hampstead's men. Nor if he were facing the Moscow _Streltzi_ , __ even without the walking walls. Finally, he looked over his shoulder.\n\nThe mob of Nizhny Novgorod was no longer milling around, but they weren't forming themselves into a unit either. They were just standing there, staring.\n\nTim shook his head. \"All right, men,\" Tim shouted. \"On the command, the first rank will kneel and ready their rifles. Pick your targets. We want to hit as many in the first volley as possible. We will then wait till the breeze clears the smoke away before the second rank fires.\" Tim looked back at the men across the field then continued, in as loud and penetrating a voice as he could manage, \"There will be no reason to rush.\"\n\nA shot rang out. Tim didn't spin or jump; he had been half-expecting it. He turned around to see a man near the end of the sort of arching line that the Nizhny Novgorod contingent had drifted into. There was smoke drifting from a musket in his hands. \"Sergeant Kadian,\" Tim said loudly.\n\n\"Yes, General?\" Kadian asked.\n\n\"That uncultured fellow with the smoke coming from his musket is your target.\"\n\n\"Right, General!\" Kadian sounded quite pleased. And men started edging away from the fellow who had shot his musket.\n\n\"Very well. Where was I? After the first rank has fired and the air has cleared, the second rank will, on command, advance five paces, kneel, and fire. When the air has cleared again, the first will . . .\"\n\n* * *\n\nBernie and Natasha were boarding the dirigible when they heard the shot. They didn't turn. It was just one shot and all it indicated was that they were in a hurry. The _Czarina Evdokia_ wasn't the _Graf Zeppelin_. It was a seventeenth-century airship built by seventeenth-century craftsmen informed by late-twentieth-century knowledge. Still, it was the same basic shape as the _Graf Zeppelin_ , if a bit smaller. They loaded in a dozen passengers, and Captain Nikita Ivanovich Slavenitsky, the first Russian to fly, gave the order to pull her out of the giant hangar.\n\n* * *\n\nTim finished his little speech and ordered the first rank to kneel. The Nizhny Novgorod force had lost several men who just faded away, but not enough. They still outnumbered Tim's men. \"Take aim! Fire!\"\n\n_Blaaam! Blam! Blam!_\n\nA bit ragged, but not too bad. And certainly better than the spatter of shots that the Nizhnys had put out in response.\n\n\"Wait for it!\" Tim shouted. \"Let the breeze clear the smoke!\" _Let the enemy see their dead and think about being elsewhere._\n\nThe breeze was taking its time in clearing away the smoke. And when it did, the results were a bit disappointing. They were at the outside edge of the AK4.7's range. Well outside of the effective range of a musket, but Tim had hoped for better. Almost fifty men had shot and less than ten of the enemy had fallen.\n\n\"Second rank advance!\" Tim moved forward with the new front rank. \"Your left! Your left! Halt!\n\n\"Kneel. Ready! Aim! Fire!\"\n\n_Blam! BlBlaBlaaaam! Blam! Blam!_\n\nDefinitely a bit ragged. It was strange. Tim should have been scared and, in a way he was. But the effect it had on him was weird. He just noticed things. Every detail became intense and distinct. The stench of the air, not just the acrid smoke of the burned powder but the smell of the river's muddy bank, combined with the dew on the grass. The patterns the smoke made as it wafted away under the light breeze. And, most of all, the enemy across the field. It was almost as if he could see their faces. Feel the fear that was eating away at the little discipline they had. He was honestly a little amazed that they had held this long.\n\nThen the _Czarina Evdokia_ appeared over the roofs of Bor. __ It was massive and it was flying. It wasn't the first time these men had seen it. It had made several test flights and some of them had gone over Nizhny Novgorod. But in this case, it meant that their last reason for being here was floating away.\n\n\"Next rank! Forward five paces!\"\n\nThe Nizhny Novgorod force scattered. Tim let them. Honestly, he had nothing against those men. They were following the orders they had been given by their lawful lords.\n\nIvan came over. \"So what now, Tim?\"\n\n\"We go to Ufa.\"\n\n* * *\n\nCzarina Evdokia looked out the window of the _Czarina Evdokia_ , awash in conflicting emotions. Staying alive in the bear pit of Russian politics wasn't ever easy, and her habit\u2014along with her husband's\u2014had been to keep her head down. That hadn't worked. Apparently it had in the other timeline, but not in this one. Now they were out of position. They couldn't keep their heads down and Evdokia wasn't at all sure that Mikhail would be able to handle being his own man. Or that she would be able to handle it. What would Sheremetev and the _Boyar Duma_ do now that Mikhail had escaped the relatively comfortable prison? It was safe to assume that the gloves would come off, but how? Would they declare that Mikhail was False Mikhail, like the False Dmitris? Would they depose him in favor of Sheremetev and his family?\n\nEvdokia didn't know. All she really knew was that she was scared to death and at the same time thrilled to be alive and flying over the countryside in a dirigible named in her honor. She looked over at her friend and confidant, Natasha, and wondered what the future would bring.\n\n* * *\n\nNatasha didn't notice. She was holding Bernie's arm and wasn't quite sure how it had happened. Some time, while she was watching the battle of Bor probably. But she had no desire at all to let the arm go.\n\nNor the man it belonged to. So many other customs and attitudes were being cast aside, why should she worry about this one any longer?\n\nAnd so many things would be changing for them, anyway. She thought about what Filip had said to the czar, when he compared him to a Cossack. He'd been joking, but the more Natasha pondered the matter the more profound that jest became.\n\nEveryone knew there were noblemen out there in the Cossack bands, not just runaway serfs. One of them, the Polish-Lithuanian nobleman Aleksander J\u00f3zef Lisowski, had even invaded Muscovy twenty years earlier at the head of an outlaw army. He'd besieged Bryansk, defeated two Russian armies sent against him, burned Belyov and Likhvin and taken Peremyshl, and then defeated another Russian army at Rzhev. He'd finally left at that point, but not before burning Torzhok also.\n\nLisowski himself had died not long afterward. But his men still remained and still considered themselves an army. The _Lisowczycy_ , they called themselves; \"Lisowski's men.\"\n\nThere were possibilities out there in the frontier lands of eastern Europe; eastward as well as to the south. People came to such lands for many reasons; usually running from something but also looking for adventure and fortune. Former serfs, former free men, former noblemen\u2014the distinctions became blurry in the borderlands; sometimes, to the point of vanishing altogether.\n\nWhat could happen in such lands, if there were a true czar to serve as a rallying point?\n\nShe didn't know, but she planned to find out.\n**Cast of Characters**\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nKnit & Purl  \nPETS\n\n20 patterns for little  \npets with big personalities\n\n**claire garland**\n\nwww.rucraft.co.uk\n\n#\n\n## CONTENTS\n\n\u2022 introduction | \u2022 biscuit's basket  \n---|---  \n\u2022 little feathered friends | \u2022 reggie veggie the  \nstegosaurus  \n\u2022 silkysoft snake | \u2022 pip and pop ponies  \n\u2022 haughty hen trio | \u2022 charlie the chameleon  \n\u2022 egg-stra good layers | \u2022 zoom the greyhound  \n\u2022 itty bitty guinea pigs | \u2022 greyhound's jacket  \n\u2022 mittens and socks,  \nthe lop eared rabbits | \u2022 techniques  \n\u2022 speckle the kitten | \u2022 yarns  \n\u2022 toy mouse | \u2022 suppliers  \n\u2022 tortellini tortoise | \u2022 about the author  \n\u2022 bamber the labrador  \npuppy | \u2022 acknowledgments  \n\u2022 index  \n\u2022 ravenous rats |   \n\u2022 biscuit the cat | \n\n#\n\n## introduction\n\n**For a child, the idea of having your very own pet to love and care for rarely becomes a reality, forever to stay a pipedream. However, children constantly continue to cry, 'I need my own pet!' \u2013 if only I had a coin for every time my children, ages seven, nine and twelve have uttered those words...**\n\nWell, _entre nous_ , here is my very effective answer \u2013 knit and purl them one, or two, or more pets. And in answer to the type of pets that have been yearned for, and these have been numerous and change like the weather, I've designed patterns for a variety of familiar and unusual pets. They need only a little basic knitting knowledge and can be knocked-out to meet demands in very little time at all. And what's more, you don't have any vets bills or mess to contend with, or need to be constantly nagging \u2013 'can you clean out your pet's hutch\/cage\/ basket \u2013 now!' A knitted pet for child or grown-up is the perfect solution!\n\nIn this book there is an array \u2013 a veritable (knitted) pets shop \u2013 of creatures to knit, some with their own accessories, from a lolloping Labrador puppy to an inquisitive kitten and a docile ginger tom with his favourite knitted basket, the cutest of bunnies and the tiniest ponies to a multi-coloured chameleon and a... stegosaurus! There are also design hints on how to go about personalizing your own special pet.\n\nAll the pets are knitted with as few components as possible, many in one piece, and because many of them are so small only small amounts of yarn are needed \u2013 a great excuse for using up your stash! There are projects for beginners through to more challenging pieces for more advanced knitters. Each piece is patterned like a 3D sculpture \u2013 a slightly different method to the usual knitting of separate parts before sewing everything together.\n\nThis book was a joy to create. The pets are enormously satisfying for the knitter and the pet-loving\/wanting child or adult. So now over to you. Which one first?\n\nEnjoy!\n\n#\n\n## little feathered friends\n\n**This project is just right for a beginner to get started on knitting pets.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\n _For each bird_\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball for body ( **MC** )\n\n  oddment for beak ( **A** )\n\n  oddment for wings ( **C** ) (optional)\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 0 (2mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n _For each bird_\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n  Oddments of brown yarn for legs\n\n  50:50 sugar (or PVA adhesive) and water solution\n\n  Scraps of fabric (optional)\n\n **gauge**\n\n17\u00bd sts and 25 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 0 (2mm) needles\n\n _Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the birds are a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 5 in (13cm) long \u00d7 2in (5cm) tall (although you can vary the length of the tail)\n\nRosey, Bluey and Sunny are sitting pretty in their Spring colours. Watch them flip and flap, but whatever you do don't tempt them with an open window \u2013 they might find their wings and fly away!\n\nYou can really let your imagination soar when choosing colours for your pretty little birds. Bluebirds, chaffinches or robins \u2013 the sky's the limit!\n\n### BIRD PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the bird is worked in one piece from the beak to the tail.\n\n  The birds are worked on double-pointed knitting needles working in the round. See the Techniques section for details.\n\n  Do not use even safety eyes on toys for an infant, as they can be a potential choking hazard. Instead, embroider the eyes in place with thread.\n\nBEAK, HEAD, BODY, WINGS AND TAIL  \nCast on 3 sts, using **A** and size 0 (2mm) needles.  \n**Row 1** (RS) K1, kfb, k1. 4 sts.  \n**Row 2** P.  \n**Row 3** K1, kfb twice, k1. 6 sts.  \n**Row 4** P.  \n**Row 5** K1, kfb, k2, kfb, k1. 8 sts.  \n**Row 6** P.  \nCut yarn. Change to **MC** and cont as follows:  \n**Row 7** K.  \n**Shape head**  \n**Row 8** Pfkb, k to last st, pkfb. 10 sts.  \n**Row 9** Kfb, k4, M1, k4, kfb. 13 sts.  \n**Row 10** P.  \n**Row 11** Kfb, k2, kfb 7 times, k2, kfb. 22 sts.  \n**Row 12** P.  \n**Shape throat**  \nCast on 3 sts at beg of next 2 rows, so ending with a WS row. 28 sts.  \n**Row 15** Divide sts: k8 onto n1, k12 onto n2, k8 onto n3. With RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on rnd 1, work in the rnd as follows:  \n**Rnd 16** K28.  \n**Rnd 17** [M1, k1] 6 times, k16, [M1, k1] 6 times. 40 sts.  \n**Rnd 18** K40.  \n**Rnd 19** K40.  \n**Shape breast**  \n**Rnd 20** [M1, k1] 4 times, k32, [M1, k1] 4 times. 48 sts.  \n**Rnd 21** K48.  \n**Rnd 22** K48.  \n**Shape back of head**  \n**Rnd 23** K22, k2tog, skpo, k22. 46 sts.  \n**Rnd 24** K21, k2tog, skpo, k21. 44 sts.  \n**Rnd 25** K44.  \n**Rnd 26** K44.  \n**Rnd 27** K2tog, k40, skpo. 42 sts.  \n**Rnd 28** K42.  \n**Rnd 29** K42.  \n**Divide for wings**  \n**Rnd 30** K12, sl next st onto a safety pin, k16, sl next st onto a safety pin, k12. 40 sts.  \n**Rnd 31** K13, sl next st onto same safety pin as previous rnd, k12, sl next st onto same safety pin as previous rnd, k13. 38 sts.  \n**Rnd 32** K14, sl next st onto same safety pin as before, k8, sl next st onto same safety pin as before, k14. 36 sts.  \n**Rnd 33** K15, sl next st onto same safety pin as before, k4, sl next st onto same safety pin as before, k15. 34 sts.\n\n**Rnd 34** K34.  \n**Rnd 35** K2tog, k30, skpo. 32 sts.  \n**Rnd 36** K32.  \nPlace marker.  \n**Rnd 37** K, dec 1 st at beg and end of rnd. 30sts.  \n**Rnd 38** K.  \nRep last 2 rnds 3 times. 24 sts.  \n**Shape tail**  \n**Rnd 45** K9, k2tog 3 times, k9. 21 sts.  \n**Rnd 46** K21.  \n**Rnd 47** K9, k3tog, k9. 19 sts.  \n**Rnd 48** K19.  \n**Rnd 49** Divide sts: k4 onto n1, k11 onto n2, k4 onto n3.  \n**Rnd 50** K8, k3tog, k8. 17 sts.  \n**Rnd 51** K17.  \n**Rnd 52** K8, skpo, k7. 16 sts.  \n**Work tail**  \nK4 so that last 8 sts are on one needle. Sl rem 8 sts onto another needle. Kitchener stitch the two sets of sts tog. 8 sts.  \n**Next row** P.  \nWork 8 rows in st st (or more for a longer tail).  \nBind off. Weave in end.\n\nLEFT WING  \n*Rejoin yarn **MC** or **C** to 4 sts on one of the safety pins.  \n**Row 1** (WS) P.  \nWork 2 rows in st st.  \n**Row 4** (RS) Kfb, k2, kfb. 6 sts.  \n**Row 5** P.  \n**Row 6** Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 8 sts.  \n**Row 7** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 10 sts.  \nWork 4 rows in st st. **  \n**Row 14** (RS) K2tog, k to end. 9 sts.  \n**Row 15** P.  \nRep last 2 rows 6 times more. 3 sts.  \n**Row 28** (RS) K3tog.  \nFasten off. Weave in the end or use it to sew the wing against the tail.\n\nRIGHT WING  \nWork as left wing from * to **. 10 sts.  \n**Row 14** (RS) K to last 2 sts, k2tog. 9 sts.  \n**Row 15** P.  \nRep last 2 rows 6 times more. 3 sts.  \n**Row 28** (RS) K3tog.  \nFasten off. Weave in the end or use it to sew the wing against the tail.\n\n**MAKING UP**  \nEYES  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively embroider the eyes with yarn.\n\nBODY AND HEAD  \nStuff the body, breast and head. Mattress stitch the beak and throat to close the seam.\n\nLEGS [MAKE 2]  \nCut a 9\u00bein (25 cm) length of brown yarn. Thread a 3in (8cm) length of brown yarn through a darning needle. Thread the short yarn through the longer one, splitting it 1\u00bdin (4cm) from one end. Pull the short length through, stopping when there is 1\u00bdin (4cm) of end and then take another st through the split yarn to secure.  \nTrim all three ends (claws) to the same length.  \nUse the same method to make a back claw, trimming one end close to the 'knot' at the join.  \nTo stiffen the legs, make up a solution of equal quantities of sugar (or PVA adhesive, which will make the legs stiffer) and water. Paint or dip the solution onto the legs. Leave them to dry.  \nSew the top end of each leg to the bottom of the bird, overstitching a few times to secure it. Bend the legs as required.\n\nDIFFERENT OPTIONS  \nCut an oval shape from fabric for the cap, wing or breast marking. Appliqu\u00e9 it in place, over-sewing with a matching thread.  \nGive your bird a different coloured face and\/or work the tail as k1, p1 rib.\n\n#\n\n## silkysoft snake\n\n**This snake is super simple for you to start knitting i-cord.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in blue\/green ( **MC** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 2 (2.5mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n  Scrap of red fabric or ribbon\n\n **gauge**\n\n15 sts and 19 rows to 2in (5cm) in st st, using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the snake is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nWork to the desired length\n\nSilkysoft is a small snake, who will slither smoothly into your affections. She might be small, but she has a huge, colourful personality. Watch her slipping in and out of sleeves and fingerless gloves as if they were a super-soft jungle gym. This little charmer only eats sssweetsss (because I can't bear to keep frozen mice in my freezer!).\n\nMake Silkysoft as long as you like and choose a piece of red ribbon or fabric to make her slippery tongue look life-like.\n\n### SNAKE PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The snake is worked in one piece.\n\n  She is worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the i-cord technique (see the Techniques section).\n\n  If you are knitting for a very young child, embroider the eyes with thread instead of using toy eyes. Even safety eyes can be a choking hazard.\n\nHEAD, BODY AND TAIL  \nCast on 2 sts using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** K2.  \nWork as i-cord as follows:  \nSlide sts to other end of needle without turning.  \nKeeping gauge tight, pull working yarn across the back of the i-cord.  \n **Row 2** K1, M1, k1. 3 sts.  \n **Row 3** K1, kfb, k1. 4 sts.  \n **Row 4** K1, kfb twice, k1. 6 sts.  \n **Row 5** K1, kfb, k2, kfb, k1. 8 sts.  \nWork as i-cord until the snake measures the desired length.  \n **Shape head**  \nWith WS facing, cast on 4 sts.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** Cast on 4 sts, k to end. 16 sts.  \n **Row 3** P.  \n **Row 4** K3, k2tog, k6, skpo, k3. 14 sts.  \n **Row 5** P2tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 12 sts.  \n **Row 6** K2, k2tog, k4, skpo, k2. 10 sts.  \n **Row 7** P.  \n **Row 8** K2, k2tog, k2, skpo, k2. 8 sts.  \n **Row 9** P.  \n **Row 10** K2, k2tog, skpo, k2. 6 sts.  \n **Row 11** P.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nMattress stitch around the nose and the head.  \nCut a V shape into the end of a strip of fabric or length of ribbon. Cut this tongue to the desired length and sew it to the end of the nose\n\n#\n\n## haughty hen trio\n\n**The hens' feet, wattles and feathery finery are a little bit fiddly, but otherwise the hens are easy to knit.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\n_For each hen_\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in ecru, grey or brown ( **MC** )\n\n  Oddment in grey marl ( **A** )\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply) yarn\n\n  Oddment in red ( **B** )\n\n  Oddment in yellow ( **C** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 6 (4mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n**notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n **gauge**\n\n11 sts and 14 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 6 (4mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the hens are a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 11in (28cm) long \u00d7 6 in (15.5cm) tall (not including the legs)\n\nYou can call your hens Clucky, Plucky and Lucky if you wish, but these laying ladies very decidedly prefer Charlotte, Penelope (never Penny) and Lavinia! Quite. They do have a certain sophisticated air about them \u2013 proud of their eggs and delighted by their fancy feathers.\n\nThe hens are knitted in pure wool and the tweedy look of the brown and grey yarns particularly recreates the colours of real feathers. Choose any yarn that will give the hens a similar rustic quality.\n\n### WHITE HEN PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main pattern is for the white hen. The grey hen is worked with just bottom tail feathers, the brown hen with just top tail feathers.\n\n  The main part of the hen is worked in one piece from the tail to the head.\n\n  The hens are worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the techniques i-cord and working in the round.\n\n  Even safety eyes can present a choking hazard for a very young child. So, instead of using toy eyes, embroider the eyes with thread.\n\n  Once you've mastered the techniques, try knitting with one size smaller needles to give a tighter fabric that gives stuffing no chance to show through.\n\nTAIL, BODY, NECK AND HEAD  \nCast on 3 sts using **MC** and size 6 (4mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** K3 and work as i-cord as follows:  \nSlide sts to other end of needle without turning.  \nKeeping gauge tight, pull working yarn across the back of the i-cord.  \n **Row 2** Kfb, k1, kfb. 5 sts.  \n **Row 3** K.  \n **Row 4** Kfb, k3, kfb. 7 sts.  \n **Row 5** K.  \n **Row 6** Kft, k5, kfb. 9 sts.  \nTurn, so WS facing.  \nSl 9 sts p-wise, dividing them equally onto 3 needles.  \nTurn, so RS facing.  \nPlace a marker at beg of row 1.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 7** (RS) [Kfb, k2] 3 times. 12 sts.  \n **Rnd 8** K.  \n **Shape tail**  \n **Rnd 9** [Kfb, k3] 3 times. 15 sts.  \n **Rnd 10** K.  \n **Rnd 11** [Kfb, k4] 3 times. 18 sts.  \n **Rnd 12** K.  \n **Rnd 13** [Kfb, k5] 3 times. 21 sts.  \n **Rnd 14** K.  \n **Rnd 15** [Kfb, k6] 3 times. 24 sts.  \n **Rnd 16** K.  \n **Rnd 17** [Kfb, k7] 3 times. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 18** K.  \n **Rnd 19** [Kfb, k8] 3 times. 30 sts.  \nWork 5 rows in garter st.  \n **Shape body**  \n **Rnd 25** [K4, M1] 3 times, k1, skpo, k2tog, k1, [M1, k4] 3 times. 34 sts.  \n **Rnd 26** Kfb, k14, k2tog twice, k14, kfb.  \n **Rnd 27** [K4, M1] 3 times, k3, skpo, k2tog, k3, [M1, k4] 3 times. 38 sts.  \n **Rnd 28** Kfb, k16, k2tog twice, k16, kfb.  \n **Rnd 29** [K4, M1] 3 times, k5, skpo, k2tog, k5, [M1, k4] 3 times. 42 sts.  \nDivide sts: 11 sts onto n1, 20 sts onto n2, 11 sts onto n3.  \n **Rnd 30** Kfb, k18, k2tog twice, k18, kfb.  \n **Rnd 31** [K4, M1] 3 times, k7, skpo, k2tog, k7, [M1, k4] 3 times. 46 sts.  \n **Work feathers**  \nPlace a marker at beg of next rnd.  \n **Rnd 32** K2, *p2, k2, rep from *.  \n **Rnd 33** P2, *k2, p2, rep from *.  \n **Rnd 34** P2, *k2, p2, rep from *.  \n **Rnd 35** K2, *p2, k2, rep from *.  \nRep rnds 26\u201329 3 times more.  \n **Shape neck**  \n **Rnd 48** Skpo, k2tog, k38, k2tog, skpo. 42 sts.  \n **Rnd 49** Skpo, k2tog, k16, [M1, k1] twice, M1, k16, k2tog, skpo. 41 sts.  \n **Rnd 50** Skpo, k2tog, k16, M1, k1, M1, k16, k2tog, skpo. 39 sts.  \nRearrange work so 16 sts on n1, 7 sts on n2, 16 sts on n3.  \n **Rnd 51** Skpo, k2tog, k15, M1, k1, M1, k15, k2tog, skpo. 37 sts.  \n **Rnd 52** Skpo, k2tog, k14, M1, k1, M1, k14, k2tog, skpo. 35 sts.  \n **Rnd 53** Skpo, k2tog, k13, M1, k1, M1, k13, k2tog, skpo. 33 sts.  \n **Rnd 54** Skpo, k2tog, k12, M1, k1, M1, k12, k2tog, skpo. 31 sts.  \n **Rnd 55** Skpo, k2tog, k11, M1, k1, M1, k11, k2tog, skpo. 29 sts.  \n **Rnd 56** Skpo, k2tog, k10, M1, k1, M1, k10, k2tog, skpo. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 57** Skpo, k2tog, k9, M1, k1, M1, k9, k2tog, skpo. 25 sts.  \nTurn, so WS facing.  \nCont in st st as follows:  \n **Divide for wattle**  \n **Row 58** (WS) P25 onto 1 needle (this pulls gauge at the neck a little).  \nCont with 2 needles.  \n **Row 59** (RS) skpo, k2tog, k to last 4 sts, k2tog, skpo. 21 sts.  \n **Row 60** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 17 sts.  \n **Row 63** (RS) K8, skpo, k to end. 16 sts.  \n **Row 64** P.  \n **Row 65** Skpo, k5, k2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 13 sts.  \n **Row 66** P.  \n **Row 67** Skpo, k3, k3tog, k3, k2tog. 9 st.  \n **Row 68** P.  \n **Row 69** Skpo, k1, k3tog, k1, k2tog. 5 sts.  \n **Row 70** P2tog, p1, p2tog. 3 sts.  \nCut **MC** and join yarn **C**.  \nCont to work as i-cord.  \n **Row 71** (RS) K.  \n **Row 72** K.  \n **Row 73** K3tog.  \nFasten off.\n\nCOMB  \nCast on 10 sts using **B** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) K.  \n **Row 2** P.  \n **Make picot edge**  \n **Row 3** Picot 5, k1, picot 4, k1, picot 3, k1, picot 2, k1, picot 1, k1.  \nMake sure all picots are on RS.  \n **Row 4** P.  \n **Row 5** K.  \nBind off k-wise.\n\nWATTLE  \n **Cast on** 4 sts using **B** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k2, kfb. 6 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \n **Row 3** Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 8 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows 4 times more. 16 sts.  \n **Row 12** (WS) P.  \n **Row 13** Kfb, k3, [M1, k4] 3 times. 20 sts.  \n **Row 14** P.  \n **Row 15** Kfb, k4, [M1, k5] 3 times. 24 sts.  \n **Row 16** P.  \n **Row 17** K8, turn.  \n **Row 18** Sl 1, p6, turn.  \n **Row 19** Sl 1, k5, turn.  \n **Row 20** Sl 1, p4, turn.  \n **Row 21** Sl 1, k20 to end.  \n **Row 22** Sl 1, p6, turn.  \n **Row 23** Sl 1, k5, turn.  \n **Row 24** Sl 1, P4, turn.  \n **Row 25** Sl 1, k6 to end.  \nBind off k-wise.\n\nLEGS (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 5 sts using **C** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** K.  \nWork as i-cord until work measures 2in (5cm).  \n **Divide for claws**  \n **Claw 1** Kfb in 1st st, using a 3rd needle. *Work on these 2 kfb sts as i-cord until claw measures  in (2cm). K2tog.  \nBind off. Weave in end**.  \n **Claw 2** RS facing, rejoin **C** to rem 4 sts. Kfb into next st. Rep from * to **.  \n **Claw 3** Rep as for claw 2.  \n **Back claw** RS facing, rejoin **C** to rem 2 sts. Kfb twice.  \nWork on these 4 sts as i-cord until claw measures  in (2cm). K2tog twice, k2tog.  \nBind off.\n\nTOP TAIL FEATHERS  \nCast on 10 sts using **MC** and size 6 (4mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) K.  \n **Row 2** Sl 1, [k1, yfd, k2tog] twice, k1, yon twice, k1, yon twice, k1.  \n **Row 3** [K2, p1] twice, k2, [yfd, k2tog, k1] twice.  \n **Row 4** Sl 1, [k1, yfd, k2tog] twice, k7.  \n **Row 5** Bind off 4 sts, k3, [yfd, k2tog, k1] twice.  \nRows 2\u20135 form the feathered edge. Rep them 12 times more.  \nBind off k-wise.  \nWith RS facing, pick up and k27 across straight edge.  \n **Row 67** (WS) P12, p3tog, p to end. 25 sts.  \n **Row 68** Kfb, k10, k3tog, k10, kfb.  \n **Row 69** P11, p3tog, p to end. 23 sts.  \n **Row 70** Kfb, k9, k3tog, k9, kfb.  \n **Row 71** P10, p3tog, p to end. 21 sts.  \n **Row 72** Kfb, k8, k3tog, k8, kfb.  \nBind off k-wise.\n\nBOTTOM TAIL FEATHERS  \nCast on 5 sts using **A** and size 6 (4mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) K.  \n **Row 2** K2, M1, k3.  \n **Row 3** K4, M1, k2.  \n **Row 4** K3, M1, k4.  \n **Row 5** K5, M1, k3.  \n **Row 6** Bind off 4 sts, k to end.  \nRows 1\u20136 form the feathered edge. Rep them 9 times more.  \nBind off k-wise.  \nWith RS facing, pick up and k33 across straight edge.  \n **Row 62** (WS) P15, p3tog, p to end. 31 sts.  \n **Row 63** Kfb, k13, k3tog, k13, kfb.  \n **Row 64** P14, p3tog, p to end. 29 sts.  \n **Row 65** Kfb, k12, k3tog, k12, kfb.  \n **Row 66** P13, p3tog, p to end. 27 sts.  \n **Row 67** Kfb, k11, k3tog, k11, kfb.  \n **Row 68** P12, p3tog, p to end. 25 sts.  \n **Row 69** Kfb, k10, k3tog, k10, kfb.  \n **Row 70** P11, p3tog, p to end. 23 sts.  \n **Row 71** Kfb, k9, k3tog, k9, kfb.  \n **Row 72** P10, p3tog, p to end. 21 sts.  \n **Row 73** Kfb, k8, k3tog, k8, kfb.  \nBind off k-wise.\n\n**MAKING UP**  \nFACE  \nWeave in the yarn end at the tip of the beak. Thread a darning needle with yarn **C** and work straight stitches to make a star shape for the eye on each side of the head. Using yarn **C** , make a few straight stitches at the top of the beak.  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in the centre of the eye markings. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.\n\nHEAD AND BODY  \nStuff the head and body through the opening at the front of the neck.  \nUsing yarn **MC** , close the opening with mattress stitch.\n\nCOMB AND WATTLE  \nJoin the row ends of the comb.  \nSew the comb to the top of the head with the largest picot towards the back.  \nSew on the wattle, with the bind-off end under the beak. Run a couple of gathering stitches from the bind-off end and draw up to give shape to the wattle.\n\nFEATHERS  \nWhip stitch the edging of the top tail feathers halfway between the top of the tail shaping and the moss stitch pattern on the body.  \nSew the bottom tail feathers beneath.\n\nLEGS  \nSew the legs to the underside of the hen.\n\n#\n\n## egg-stra good layers\n\n**These eggs are knitted in the round and need stuffing carefully to keep their egg shape.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\n  Oddments of 4-ply yarn in egg colours\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 1 (2.25mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **gauge**\n\n_You don't really need to worry about the gauge \u2013 it doesn't matter if the eggs are a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 5\u00bdin (14cm) long\n\nThe haughty hens think their eggs are the most beautiful ever laid and you can have fun knitting a whole clutch. Make as many as you like \u2013 perfect for Easter!\n\nChoose a variety of subtle eggy colours to make your hens really proud of their eggs.\n\n### EGG PATTERN\n\nCast on 6 sts using size 1 (2.25mm) needles.  \nDivide 6 sts equally onto 3 needles.  \nWith WS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 1** (WS) [Kfb, k1] 3 times. 9 sts.  \n **Rnd 2** [Kfb, k2] 3 times. 12 sts.  \n **Rnds 3\u20137** Inc 1 st in 1st st on each needle. 27 sts.  \nPlace marker at beg of next rnd.  \n **Rnds 8\u201310** K.  \n **Rnd 11** [Skpo, k7] 3 times. 24 sts.  \n **Rnd 12** K.  \n **Rnd 13** [Skpo, k6] 3 times. 21 sts.  \n **Rnd 14** K.  \n **Rnd 15** [Skpo, k5] 3 times. 18 sts.  \n **Rnds 16\u201319** Dec 1 st in 1st st on each needle. 6 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nCarefully turn the work to the wrong side and stuff the egg.  \nPull up the stitches at the top and secure the thread to the inside. Weave in the yarn end at the bottom of the egg, securing the stitches inside.  \nGently manipulate the work into an egg shape.\n\n#\n\n## itty bitty guinea pigs\n\n**The guinea pigs are knitted mainly in the round, but their legs are knitted as i-cord to make them more spindly.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\n_For each guinea pig_\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in body colour ( **MC** )\n\n  Oddment in contrasting colour ( **C** )\n\n_For the long-haired guinea pig_\n\n  Oddment in brown for legs ( **A** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n  2 \u00d7 size 0 (2mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **gauge**\n\n13 sts and 16 rows to 2in (5cm) in st st, using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the guinea pigs are a little bigger or smaller than shown_\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 5\u00bdin (14cm) long \u00d7 2in (5cm) tall (not including the legs)\n\nItty and Bitty! A third guinea pig would, of course, be called Boo but, alas, there are only two \u2013 and two is plenty of these little rascals! Cute but mischievous, they nibble everything and are very squeaky in a knitted squeak kind of way.\n\nYou can use a fancy yarn to give your guinea pigs a long beatnik hairdo or plain yarn for a short-haired look.\n\n### GUINEA PIG PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  Both the long and the short-haired guinea pigs are worked in the same way, except for the colour changes on the short-haired one. For the long-haired guinea pig, work all the instructions for yarn **MC** and **C** as **MC** only.\n\n  The main part of the guinea pig is worked in one piece from the head through the body.\n\n  Even safety eyes can present a choking hazard for a very young child. So, instead of using toy eyes, embroider the eyes with thread.\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The guinea pigs are worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the techniques i-cord and working in the round.\n\n  You can knit any yarn with needles one size smaller than the size recommended on the ball band to give a tight fabric that doesn't allow the stuffing to show through.\n\nHEAD, LEGS AND BODY  \nCast on 4 sts using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n _For short-haired guinea-pig only:_ join **C** , working intarsia. For long-haired guinea pig, work all sts ( **MC** and **C** ) in **MC** here and throughout.  \nCont as follows:  \n **Row 2** (RS) **MC** kfb, **C** k2, **MC** kfb. 6 sts.  \n **Row 3 MC** p2, **C** p2, **MC** p2.  \n **Row 4 MC** kfb twice, **C** kfb twice, **MC** kfb twice. 12 sts.  \n **Row 5 MC** p4, **C** p4, **MC** p4.  \n **Row 6 MC** kfb twice, k2, **C** k4, **MC** k2, kfb twice. 16 sts.  \n **Row 7 MC** p6, **C** p4, **MC** p6.  \n **Row 8** Divide sts: **MC** k5 onto n1, **MC** k1, **C** k4, **MC** k1 onto n2, **MC** k5 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 9** (RS) **MC** kfb, k5, **C** k4, **MC** k5, kfb. 18 sts.  \n **Rnd 10 MC** kfb, k6, **C** k4, **MC** k6, kfb. 20 sts.  \n **Rnd 11 MC** k2, kfb twice, k4, **C** k4, **MC** k4, kfb twice times, k2. 24 sts.  \n **Rnd 12 MC** k10, **C** k4, **MC** M10.  \n **Rnd 13 MC** k3, kfb 3 times, k5, **C** k2, **MC** k5, kfb 3 times, k3. 30 sts.\n\n**Rnd 14 MC** k14, **C** k2, **MC** M14.  \n _For short-haired guinea-pig only:_ cut **C**. Cont with **MC** as follows:  \n **Rnd 15** Kfb, k28, kfb. 32 sts.  \n **Rnd 16** K32.  \nRep last rnd twice more.  \n **Shape head back**  \n **Rnd 19** K13, k2tog, k2, skpo, k13. 30 sts.  \n _For short-haired guinea-pig only:_ join **C** and work with **MC** (as 2 strands),) as follows:  \n **Rnd 20** K30.  \n _For short haired guinea pig only:_ cut **MC** and cont with **C** as follows:  \n **Rnd 21** K30.  \n **Rnd 22** K2tog, skpo, k22, k2tog, skpo. 26 sts.  \n **Rnd 23** K26.  \nRep last rnd 6 times more.  \n **Make eyes**  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider eyes with yarn.  \n **Divide for front legs**  \n **Rnd 30** Kfb 3 times, sl next 6 sts onto a safety pin, kfb 8 times, sl next 6 sts onto a safety pin, kfb 3 times. 28 sts. (Keep gauge tight to avoid gaps as you knit under the sts on safety pins.)  \n **Rnd 31** K28.  \nRep last rnd twice more.  \n _For short-haired guinea pig only:_ join **MC** and work with **C** (as 2 strands) as follows:  \n **Rnd 34** K28.  \n _For short-haired guinea pig only:_ cut **C** and cont with **MC** as follows:  \n **Shape back**  \n **Rnd 35** K14, M1, k14. 29 sts.  \n **Rnd 36** K29.  \n **Rnd 37** K14, M1, k1, M1, k14. 31 sts.  \n **Rnd 38** K31.  \n **Rnd 39** K15, M1, k1, M1, k15. 33 sts.  \n **Rnd 40** K33.  \n **Rnd 41** K16, M1, k1, M1, k16. 35 sts.  \n **Rnd 42** K35.  \n **Rnd 43** K17, M1, k1, M1, k17. 37 sts.  \n **Rnd 44** K37.  \n **Rnd 45** K18, M1, k1, M1, k18. 39 sts.  \n **Rnd 46** K39.  \n **Rnd 47** K19, M1, k1, M1, k19. 41 sts.  \n **Rnd 48** K41.  \n **Rnd 49** K20, M1, k1, M1, k20. 43 sts.  \n **Rnd 50** K43.  \nBegin to stuff the head and body.  \nPlace marker and work 5 rnds without shaping.  \n _For short-haired guinea pig only:_ join **C** and work with **MC** (as 2 strands) as follows:  \n **Rnd 56** k43.\n\n_For short-haired guinea pig only:_ cut **MC** and cont with **C** as follows:  \n **Rnd 57** K43.  \n **Rnd 58** K20, k3tog, k20. 41 sts.  \n **Rnd 59** K41.  \n **Rnd 60** K19, k3tog, k19. 39 sts.  \n **Rnd 61** K39.  \n **Rnd 62** K18, k3tog, k18. 37 sts.  \n **Rnd 63** K37.  \n **Divide for back legs**  \n **Rnd 64** (RS) K4, sl next 8 sts onto a safety pin, k5, k3tog, k5, sl next 8 sts onto a safety pin, k4. 18 sts.  \n(Keep gauge tight to avoid gaps as you purl above the sts on safety pins.)  \n **Rnd 65** *K2tog, rep from * to end. 9 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Stuff the rest of the body. Pull yarn up tight to close the opening and secure. Weave in end.  \n **Shape front legs (make 2)**  \nSl 6 sts held on the safety pin for the front leg onto size 3 (3mm) needle.  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **C** ( **A** for long-haired guinea pig).  \n **Rnd 66** (RS) K6. *Work as i-cord for 12 more rows or until the leg measures 1\u00bdin (4cm).  \n **Rnd 67** K3, turn, bind off 3 sts p-wise. 3 sts.  \nRejoin **C** ( **A** ) to rem 3 sts, k3, turn, bind off 3 sts p-wise.  \nWeave in ends.**  \n **Shape back legs (make 2)**  \nSl 8 sts held on one safety pin for a back leg onto size 3 (3mm) needle.  \n **Rnd 68** (RS) **C** ( **A** ) K8.  \nWork as i-cord as follows:  \n **Rnd 69** K8.  \n **Rnd 70** K2tog, k4, k2tog. 6 sts.  \nWork as front legs from * to **.\n\nEARS (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 5 sts using **MC** (or **A** for long-haried guinea pig) and size 0 (2mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k3, kfb. 7 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \n **Row 3** K2, k3tog, k2. 5 sts.  \n **Row 4** P.  \n **Row 5** K1, k3tog, k1. 3 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n**MAKING UP**  \nNOSE  \nWorking mattress stitch, join the seam under the nose. Using black yarn, embroider a couple of straight sts at the tip of the nose for nostrils.\n\nLEGS  \nWeave in the ends at the legs and feet. Sew a couple of stitches to join the front legs to the side of the body to give a slightly bent leg effect and to conceal any gap left under the legs.  \nPinch and then stitch the back legs about 1in (2.5cm) up from the toes to make ankle joints. Work mattress stitch to close the opening where the back legs divide.\n\nEARS  \nSew the cast-on edge of an ear to one side of the head where the shaping decreases. Repeat for the other ear.\n\n#\n\n## mittens & socks, lop-eared rabbits\n\n**Knitted in the round, these rabbits grow like topsy.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\n_For each rabbit_\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  2 \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) balls in brown speckles or white ( **MC** )\n\n  Oddment for feet in brown speckles ( **A** )\n\n  Oddment for feet and tail in grey ( **B** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bdin- (12mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n  Oddment of pink yarn for nostrils and toenails\n\n  Beige machine sewing thread for whiskers (optional)\n\n **gauge**\n\n13 sts and 16 rows to 2in (5cm) in st st, using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the rabbits are a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 10in (25cm) long \u00d7 7in (18cm) tall\n\nHow to fall in love with a soft toy! Mittens and Socks are so doe-eyed, they're simply adorable \u2013 and, of course, cuddly. Make them a blanket for their own cardboard box hutch and they'll snuggle in \u2013 if you can bear to put them down.\n\nTweedy wool gives these bunnies a rustic charm, but experiment with chenille or angora if you want silky soft house rabbits.\n\n### RABBIT PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the rabbit is worked in one piece from the head through the body.\n\n  The rabbits are worked on double-pointed knitting needles working in the round.\n\n  Do not use even safety eyes on toys for an infant, as they can be a potential choking hazard. Instead, embroider the eyes in place with thread.\n\n  You can knit any yarn with needles one size smaller than the size recommended on the ball band to give a tight fabric that doesn't allow the stuffing to show through.\n\nHEAD, LEGS AND BODY  \nCast on 6 sts using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** Cast on 4 sts, k4, k2tog, k to end. 9 sts.  \n **Row 3** Cast on 4 sts, p4, p2tog, p to end. 12 sts.  \nShape cheeks  \n **Row 4** (RS) K1, kfb 3 times, k4, kfb 3 times, k1. 18 sts.  \n **Row 5** P.  \n **Row 6** K1, kfb 6 times, k4, kfb 6 times, k1. 30 sts.  \n **Row 7** P.  \n **Row 8** K1, [M1, k1] 8 times, k12, [M1, k1] 8 times, k1. 46 sts.  \nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Row 12** (RS) K19, k2tog, k4, skpo, k to end. 44 sts.  \n **Shape right side of face**  \n **Row 13** (WS) P18, turn.  \n **Row 14** Sl 1, k15, turn.  \n **Row 15** Sl 1, p13, turn.  \n **Row 16** Sl 1, k11, turn.  \n **Row 17** Sl 1, p to last 2 sts at other side of head, turn.  \n **Shape left side of face**  \n **Row 18** (RS) Sl 1, k15, turn.  \n **Row 19** Sl 1, p13, turn.  \n **Row 20** Sl 1, k11, turn.  \n **Row 21** Sl 1, p9, turn.  \n **Row 22** Sl 1, k to end.  \n **Row 23** P.  \n **Row 24** Divide sts: k15 onto n1, k14 onto n2, k15 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight in first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 25** K44.  \nRep last rnd twice more.  \n **Shape front of head and create ear holes**  \n **Rnd 28** K29, turn. Work back and forth across last 14 sts at the head front as follows:  \n **Row 29** (WS) P14, turn.  \n **Row 30** Sl 1, k10, skpo, k1, turn.  \n **Row 31** Sl 1, p9, p2tog, p1, turn.  \n **Row 32** Sl 1, k8, skpo, k1, turn.  \n **Row 33** Sl 1, p7, p2tog, p1, turn.  \n **Row 34** Sl 1, k6, skpo, k1, turn.  \n **Row 35** Sl 1, p5, p2tog, p1, turn.  \n **Row 36** Sl 1, k4, skpo, k1, turn.  \n **Row 37** Sl 1, p3, p2tog, p1, turn.  \n **Row 38** Sl 1, k2, skpo, k1. Do not turn.  \nK50 to join into rnd and beg at start of rnd (at rabbit's chin) once more. (Keep gauge tight across the ear hole gaps left at the head front shaping.)  \nCont to work on last 35 sts as follows:  \n **Rnd 39** K35.  \nRep last rnd 3 times more.  \n **Shape neck**  \n **Rnd 43** K2tog, skpo, k27, k2tog, skpo. 31 sts.  \n **Rnd 44** K31.  \n **Rnd 45** K2tog, skpo, k23, k2tog, skpo. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 46** K27.  \n **Divide for front**  \n **Rnd 47** K4, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin, k19. 19 sts.  \nWith WS facing, work back and forth as follows:  \n **Shape front legs**  \n _Speckled rabbit only:_  \n **Row 48** (WS) Cast on 22 sts, p to end.  \n **Row 49** Cast on 22 sts, k to end.  \n _White rabbit only:_  \nJoin **A** , stranding yarn (see intarsia p. 117) at back of work as follows:  \n **Row 48** (WS) **MC** cast on 17 sts, **A** cast on 5 sts, **A** p5, **MC** p to end.  \n **Row 49 MC** cast on 17 sts, **A** cast on 5 sts, **A** k5, **MC** k to last 5 sts, **A** k 5.  \nNow work first 5 sts at beg and end of next 17 rows in **A**.  \n **Shape feet** **( _both rabbits_ )**  \n **Row 50** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 51** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 52** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 53** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 54** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Row 55** K5, turn.  \n **Row 56** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 57** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 58** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 59** Sl 1, k to end.  \nWork 7 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside front left leg**  \n _Cont as follows, using MC for brown rabbit and A for white rabbit:_  \nWork first 5 sts at beg and end of next 13 rows.  \n **Row 67** (RS) K22, turn.  \nWork 7 rows in st st on these 22 sts for the inside left leg.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 75** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 76** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 77** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 78** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 79** Sl 1, k19 to end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 22 sts.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin yarn to the foot end of the right leg.  \n _Cont as follows, using MC for brown rabbit and A for white rabbit:_  \nWork first 5 sts at beg and end of next 11 rows in **A**.  \n **Work inside front right leg**  \n **Row 80** (WS) P22, turn.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.\n\n**Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 86** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 87** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 88** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 89** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 90** Sl 1, p19 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 22 sts.  \nLeave rem 19 sts from the back on their needles.  \n **Work front**  \nSl 8 sts at the neck off the safety pin onto size 3 (3mm) needle. With RS facing, rejoin **MC**.  \n **Row 91** (RS) K.  \nWork 9 rows in st st.  \n **Join front to back**  \n **Row 101** (RS) K8, k12 sts from the back onto n2, k7 sts from the back onto n3. 27 sts.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge tight across junctions, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 102** K27.  \n **Shape tummy**  \n **Rnd 103** (RS) K8, M1, k1, M1, k17, M1, k1, M1. 31 sts.  \n **Rnd 104** K31.  \n **Rnd 105** K8, M1, k23, M1. 33 sts.  \n **Rnd 106** K33.  \n **Rnd 107** K8, M1, k25, M1. 35 sts.  \n **Rnd 108** K35.  \n **Rnd 109** K8, M1, k27, M1. 37 sts.  \n **Rnd 110** K37.  \n **Shape back**  \n **Rnd 111** K22, M1, k1, M1, k14. 39 sts.  \n **Rnd 112** K39.  \n **Rnd 113** K23, M1, k1, M1, k15. 41 sts.  \n **Rnd 114** K41.  \n **Rnd 115** K24, M1, k1, M1, k16. 43 sts.  \n **Rnd 116** K43.  \nRep last rnd 4 times more.  \n **Divide for back legs**  \nK8, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin. 35 sts  \nWith RS facing, work back and forth as follows:  \n **Shape upper back legs**  \nCast on 10 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 55 sts.  \n **Shape back**  \n **Row 119** (RS) K26, k3tog, k to end. 53 sts.  \nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Row 123** (RS) K25, k3tog, k to end. 51 sts.  \nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Row 127** (RS) K24, k3tog, k to end. 49 sts.  \nWork 2 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside back right leg**  \n **Row 130** (WS) P10, turn.  \nWork 10 rows in st st on these 10 sts for the inside right leg.  \nBind off 10 sts.  \nWith RS facing, return to rem 39 sts.  \n **Work inside back left leg**  \n **Row 141** (RS) Rejoin **MC** , k10, turn.  \nWork 10 rows in st st on these 10 sts for the inside right leg.  \nBind off 10 sts.  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to rem 29 sts.  \n **Divide for tail**  \n **Row 152** Bind off 8 sts, k5, k2tog, k5, bind off last 8 sts. 12 sts.  \n **Work tail**  \nWith RS facing, rejoin yarn.  \n **Row 153** (RS) *K2tog, rep from * to end. 6 sts. Leave sts on needle.  \n **Work underside of tail**  \n **Row 154** With WS facing, sl first loop from the back of 6 sts for the tail onto a needle. Knit into this loop with **B** (brown rabbit) or **MC** (white rabbit). Pick up the next loop and knit into that, cont working along the row, ending with 6 loops and 2 rows on knitting adjacent to each other. Turn. With WS of the 'new' row facing, cont as follows:  \n **Row 155** (WS) P6.  \nWork 8 rows in st st.  \n **Row 164** (RS) K2tog 3 times. 3 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.  \n **Shape top of tail**  \n **Row 165** Return to 6 sts from the top of the tail, k6 in **MC**.  \nWork 8 rows in st st to mirror the under tail, so ending with a WS row.  \n **Row 174** (RS) K2tog 3 times. 3 sts.  \nUsing a darning needle, join along the row ends to join the top and bottom tails, and stuff to puff out the tail slightly.  \n **Shape gusset between back legs**  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to 8 sts on the safety pin before the back legs.  \n **Row 175** (RS) K.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.  \n **Row 181** (RS) K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 6 sts.  \n **Row 182** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 4 sts.  \n **Row 185** K2tog twice. 2 sts.  \n **Row 186** P.  \nBind off.\n\nBACK FET (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 22 sts using **MC** (white rabbit) or **B** (brown rabbit) and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** *Kfb, rep from * to end. 44 sts.  \n **Row 3** P.  \n **Row 4** [K1, M1] twice, k18, [M1, k1] 5 times, k17, [M1, k1] twice. 53 sts.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.  \n **Row 10** (RS) K24, k2tog, k1, skpo, k to end. 51 sts.  \n **Row 11** P.  \n **Row 12** K23, k2tog, k1, skpo, k to end. 49 sts.  \n **Row 13** P.  \n **Row 14** K22, k2tog, k1, skpo, k to end. 47 sts.  \n **Row 15** P.  \n **Row 16** K13, bind off next 21 sts, k to end. 26 sts.  \n **Row 17** P26.  \nWork 2 rows in st st.  \nBind off.\n\nEARS (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 9 sts using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** Kfb, k3, M1, k1, M1, k3, kfb. 13 sts.  \n **Row 3** P.  \n **Row 4** Kfb, k5, M1, k1, M1, k5, kfb. 17 sts.  \n **Row 5** P.  \n **Row 6** Kfb, k7, M1, k1, M1, k7, kfb. 21 sts.  \n **Row 7** P.  \n **Row 8** Kfb, k9, M1, k1, M1, k9, kfb. 25 sts.  \nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Row 12** (RS) K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 23 sts.  \n **Row 13** P.  \nRep last 2 rows twice more. 19 sts.  \n **Row 18** (RS) K2tog, k7, skpo, k6, k2tog. 16 sts.  \n **Row 19** P.  \n **Row 20** K2tog, k4, skpo, k2tog, k4, k2tog. 12 sts.  \n **Row 21** K2tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 10 sts.  \n **Row 22** K2tog, k2, skpo, k2, k2tog. 7 sts.  \n **Row 23** P2tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 5 sts.  \nWork 2 rows in st st.  \nBind off.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nHEAD  \nWorking mattress stitch, join the seam under the nose and chin.  \nEmbroider a couple of straight sts in pink yarn at the tip of the nose for nostrils.  \nSecure **MC** at one end of the nose bridge and push the needle through the head to the other side of the nose bridge. Pull the yarn to draw the sides slightly together and create an indentation for eye sockets. Secure the yarn.\n\nEYES  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place in the eye sockets. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.\n\nEARS  \nSew each ear onto the side of the rabbit's head, with the cast-on edge in the opening and the back seam facing backwards.\n\nHEAD  \nStuff the head and neck fairly firmly, manipulating the stuffing to shape cheeks, nose bridge and forehead.\n\nFRONT LEGS  \nWith wrong side facing, fold the front leg in half, joining the row ends and matching the foot shaping. Leaving the tops (bind-off edges) of the legs unsewn, mattress stitch the row ends to join the inside leg to the outer leg. Work a running stitch around the bind-off end at the foot, pull it up tight to gather and secure, stuffing the foot as you go. Weave the end in.\n\nBACK LEGS  \nJoin the back legs along the row ends, leaving the cast-on and bind-off edges unsewn.  \nJoin the instep, sole and back feet seams. Stuff the feet. Attach the feet to the back legs with mattress stitch, matching the front of the foot with the seam.\n\nTOES  \nCreate toes on all the feet with pink yarn, sewing three straight stitches and pulling the yarn tight to create an indent.\n\nBODY  \nJoin the rows ends at the back of the rabbit under the tail.  \nMattress stitch the short seams at the front legs along the sides of the body and around the tops of the front legs, easing in the fullness to fit the shapings. Mattress stitch the gusset at the back legs along the sides of the body, around the tops of the front legs and up to the back, leaving an opening for stuffing. Lightly stuff the body.\n\nWHISKERS  \nIf you wish to make whiskers, cut short lengths of thread. Thread one length into a darning needle and pass it through a knitted stitch in the nose, so both ends are the same length. Make another stitch to secure. Work other strands into other knitted stitches to create more whiskers. Trim.\n\nPATCH  \nWork a patch onto the front of the white rabbit's nose using Swiss darning and contrasting yarn.\n\n#\n\n## speckle the kitten\n\n**This kitten combines simple shaping with knitting in the round to create a truly lovable pet.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  1 \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in grey\/white tweed ( **MC** )\n\n  Oddment in ecru ( **A** )\n\n  Oddment in pink for nose\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n  2 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) knitting needles (optional)\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7  in- (8mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n **gauge**\n\n13 sts and 16 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the kitten is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 9\u00bdin (21cm) long (including the tail) \u00d7 6in (12cm) tall\n\nSpeckle is simply adorable with her little pink nose, bright attentive eyes and white socks. Her cat's curiosity makes her eager to leap about as she plays with her favourite toy \u2013 a yellow mouse on wheels!\n\nOnce you get used to knitting in the round, you will find Speckle easy to make.\n\n### KITTEN PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the body is worked in one piece from the nose to the tail.\n\n  The kitten is worked on double-pointed knitting needles, sometimes working in the round, and Kitchener stitch is used to make a 'seamless' join.\n\n  If you are knitting for a very young child, embroider the eyes with thread instead of using toy eyes. Even safety eyes can be a choking hazard.y  If you want a tighter fabric, simply knit using needles that are one size smaller than specified.\n\nHEAD, EARS, BODY, LEGS AND TAIL  \nCast on 3 sts using **A** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) *Kfb, rep from * to end. 6 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \n **Rows 3\u20136** Rep rows 1\u20132 twice more. 24 sts.  \n **Row 7** (RS) Divide sts: k8 sts onto n1, 8 sts onto n2, 8 sts onto n3. 24 sts.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 8** (RS) [K8, M1] 3 times, sl last st back onto n3. 27 sts. Cut yarn. Join **MC**. Without turning work, cont as follows:  \n **Rnd 9** (RS) K13, kfb, k13. 28 sts.  \n **Rnd 10** (Kfb, k3) 7 times. 35 sts.  \n **Rnd 11** K.  \n **Rnd 12** (Kfb, k4) 7 times. 42 sts.  \n **Rnd 13** K.  \n **Shape top of head**  \n **Rnd 14** K18, [kfb] 6 times, k18. 48 sts.  \n **Rnd 15** K.  \n **Rnd 16** K20, [kfb, k1] 4 times, k20. 52 sts.  \nPlace marker at beg of next rnd and k 4 rnds.  \n **Divide for neck and back of head**  \n **Rnd 21** K5, bind off 13, place marker, k15, place marker, bind off 13 sts, K4.  \nK across next 5 sts so all 10 sts from under the chin are on one needle.  \nCut yarn, leaving sts on needle.  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to 16 sts from the back of the head (also on one needle).  \n **Row 22** (RS) K, turn.  \n **Row 23** P.  \n **Row 24** Skpo, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 14 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows 3 times more. 8 sts.  \nPlace marker at each end of next row for the back of the ear position.  \n **Row 31** (WS) P.  \n **Row 32** K1, M1, k to last st, M1, k1. 10 sts.  \n **Row 33** P.  \n **Row 34** K1, M1, k to last st, M1, k1. 12 sts.  \nWork 5 rows in st st, beg with p row.  \nCut yarn, leaving sts on the needle.  \n **Shape ears**  \n*With RS facing, pick up and k 11 sts between markers on the right side of the head.  \nWork 3 rows in st st, beg with p row.  \n **Row 44** (RS) K10, turn.  \n **Row 45** Sl 1, p8, turn.  \n **Row 46** Sl 1, k7, turn.  \n **Row 47** Sl 1, p6, turn.  \n **Row 48** Sl 1, k5, turn.  \n **Row 49** Sl 1, p4, turn.  \n **Row 50** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 51** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 52** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 53** Sl 1, p5 to end.  \n **Row 54** (RS) K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 9 sts.  \n **Row 55** P2 tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 7 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 3 sts.  \n **Row 58** (RS) ***K2tog, k1. 2 sts.  \n **Row 59** P2tog. 1 st.  \nFasten off.**  \nRep from * to ** for other ear, reversing shaping at ***.  \nWeave in ends.  \n **Shape neck**  \n **Row 60** (RS) **MC** Divide sts: K10 sts from the neck onto n1, k6 (joining neck to back of head) onto n2, k6 onto n3. 22 sts.  \nWith RS facing, work in the rnd. K5 to centre of neck and place marker for beg of rnds from now on.  \nK 2 rnds.  \n **Rnd 63** (K1, M1) 21 times, k1 43 sts.  \nK 3 rows.  \n **Divide for front**  \n **Rnd 67** K5 sts, sl last 10 sts onto a safety pin, K4, sl 4 sts onto working needle, k 12 sts (18 sts on needle), K 17 sts onto n2. 33 sts.  \n **Shape front legs**  \nWith WS facing, work st st over 2 needles (working all sts onto one needle if you prefer) as follows:  \nCast on 15 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 63 sts.  \n **Shape feet**  \n **Row 70** (WS) p5, turn.  \n **Row 71** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 72** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 73** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 74** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Row 75** K5, turn.  \n **Row 76** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 77** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 78** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 79** Sl 1, k to end.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside front left leg**  \n **Row 85** (RS) K15, turn.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.  \n **Shape inside left left**  \n **Row 91** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 92** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 93** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 94** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 95** Sl 1, k12 to end, turn.  \nBind off 15 sts.  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to rem 48 sts.  \n **Row 96** K.  \n **Work inside front right leg**  \n **Row 97** (WS) p15, turn.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.\n\n**Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 103** (WS) p5, turn.  \n **Row 104** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 105** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 106** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 107** Sl 1, p12 to end, turn.  \nBind off 15 sts.  \n **Shape back**  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **MC** to rem 33 sts.  \n **Row 108** (WS) P.  \nWork 2 rows in st st.  \n **Row 111** (RS) K16, M1, k1, M1, k to end. 35 sts.  \n **Row 112** P.  \n **Row 113** K17, M1, k1, M1, k to end. 37 sts.  \n **Row 114** P.  \n **Row 115** K18, M1, k1, M1, k to end. 39 sts.  \n **Row 116** P.  \n **Shape back legs**  \n **Row 117** (RS) Cast on 7 sts, k26, M1, k1, M1, k to end. 48 sts.  \n **Row 118** Cast on 7 sts, p to end. 55 sts.  \nWork st st for 2 rows.  \n **Row 121** (RS) K26, k3tog, k to end. 53 sts.  \n **Row 122** P.  \n **Row 123** K25, k3tog, k to end. 51 sts.  \n **Row 124** P.  \n **Row 125** K24, k3tog, k to end. 49 sts.  \n **Row 126** P.  \n **Divide for tail**  \n **Row 127** (RS) K19, sl next 11 sts onto a safety pin, k19 under the tail to end of row. 38 sts. (Keep gauge tight as you knit under the sts held on safety pin.)  \n **Row 128** P18, p2tog, p to end. 37 sts.  \nShape inside back left leg  \n **Row 129** (RS) K7, turn.  \nWith WS facing, work 9 rows in st st.  \nBind off 7 sts.  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to rem 30 sts.  \n **Row 139** K2tog 5 times, k3tog, k2tog 5 times, k7. 18 sts.  \nShape inside back right leg  \n **Row 140** (WS) P7, turn.  \nWith RS facing, work 9 rows in st st.  \nBind off.  \n **Work underbody**  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **MC** to rem 11 sts.  \n **Row 150** P.  \nWork 8 rows in st st.  \nCut yarn, leave sts on needle.  \n **Work neck**  \nWith RS facing, sl 10 sts at neck off the safety pin, p-wise, onto size 2 (2.5mm) needle.  \n **Row 159** (WS) **MC** P.  \nWork 22 rows in st st.  \nCut yarn, leaving sts on needle.  \nWeave in ends.  \n **Join seam under back legs**  \nWith WS tog, hold needles parallel. Work Kitchener st to close the seam, taking off last st k-wise. Weave in end.  \n **Work tail**  \nSl 11 sts at the tail off the safety pin onto size 2 (2.5mm) needle.  \nDivide sts over two more needles.  \nJoin for working in the rnd and place marker at beg of rnd.  \n **Rnd 182** K.  \nRep last rnd 4 times more.  \n **Rnd 187** (K3, kfb) twice, k3. 13 sts.  \nPlace marker at beg of rnd. Work 5 rnds.  \nFasten off.  \nWeave in loose end at the tip of the tail.  \nUse loose end at the body end of the tail to close any opening under the tail.\n\nBACK FEET (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 12 sts, using **A** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** K1, *M1, k1, rep from * to end. 23 sts.  \n **Row 3** P.  \n **Row 4** K1, M1, k8, (M1, k1) 6 times, k7, M1, k1. 31 sts.  \n **Rows 5\u20137** St st.  \n **Row 8** K13, k2tog, k1, skpo, k13. 29 sts.  \n **Row 9** P.  \n **Row 10** K12, k2tog, k1, skpo, k12. 27 sts.  \n **Row 11** P.  \n **Row 12** K8, bind off next 11 sts, k7. 16 sts.  \n **Row 13** P.  \n **Rows 14\u201316** St st.  \nBind off.\n\nINNER EAR (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 11 sts using **A** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) P.  \n **Row 2** K10, turn.  \n **Row 3** Sl1, p8, turn.  \n **Row 4** Sl1, k7, turn.  \n **Row 5** Sl1, p6, turn.  \n **Row 6** Sl1, k5, turn.  \n **Row 7** Sl1, p4, turn.  \n **Row 8** Sl1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 9** Sl1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 10** Sl1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 11** Sl1, p5 to end.  \n **Row 12** K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 9 sts.  \n **Row 13** P2tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 7 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 3 sts.  \n **Row 16** (RS) K3tog.  \nFasten off.  \nWeave all ends into WS.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nEARS  \nUsing yarn **MC** , oversew the inner ear to the inside of the outer ear, matching shaping and closing the opening. Use your thumbs to push in a 'hollow' shaping at the inside ear against the outer ear. Join the seams at each side of the head.\n\nEYES AND NOSE  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn. Embroider a nose using yarn **B** and straight stitches.\n\nFRONT LEGS  \nWith wrong side facing, fold the front leg in half, joining the row ends and matching the foot shaping. Leaving the tops (bind-off edges) of the legs unsewn, mattress stitch the row ends to join the inside leg to the outer leg. Work a running stitch around the bind-off edge at the foot, pull the yarn up tight to gather, and secure. Stuff the leg fairly firmly, shaping the foot as you do so. Weave the yarn end through the stuffing back inside the foot. Repeat for the other leg.\n\nBACK LEGS  \nJoin the back seam on the back leg. Join the instep, sole and back feet seams. Stuff the foot. Attach the feet to the back leg using mattress seam. Stuff fairly firmly, shaping the foot as you do so. Weave the yarn end back through the stuffing inside the foot. With yarn **B** , sew four straight stitches at the tips of the feet to create toe pads. Repeat for the other leg.\n\nBODY  \nJoin the row ends at the back of the kitten. Beginning at the tail end, join the seam along the sides of the body and around the tops of the legs, leaving an opening for stuffing. Stuff the kitten fairly firmly into the head, but less so into the body to allow it to be a bit floppy. Sew the opening closed. Manipulate the stuffing at the legs and feet, and along the neck and body, to really give a kitten shape, while keeping it soft and cuddly.\n\n#\n\n## toy mouse\n\n**Have fun choosing the colour for your toy mouse from your stash.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  Oddment in yellow ( **MC** )\n\n  Oddment in shale grey ( **A** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 2 (2.5mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm) diameter toy safety eyes in plain black (or black yarn)\n\n **gauge**\n\n15 sts and 19 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 1 (2.25mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the mouse is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 3in (7 cm) long\n\nSpeckle the kitten loves playing with her toy mouse, so thank goodness it's easy to knit.\n\n### MOUSE PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  Even safety eyes can present a choking hazard for a very young child. So, instead of using toy eyes, embroider the eyes with thread.\n\n  The main body is worked in one piece.\n\n  The kitten is worked on double-pointed knitting needles sometimes in the round.\n\nCast on 3sts using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) *Kfb, rep from * to end. 6 sts.  \n **Row 2** Divide sts: k2 sts onto n1, 2 sts onto n2, 2 sts onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 3** K.  \n **Rnd 4** *Kfb, rep from * to end. 12 sts.  \n **Rnd 5** K.  \n **Rnd 6** *K1, kfb, rep from * to end. 18 sts.  \n **Rnd 7** K.  \n **Rnd 8** *K2, kfb, rep from * to end. 24 sts.  \n **Rnd 9** K.  \n **Rnd 10** *K3, kfb, rep from * to end. 30 sts.  \nPlace marker.  \n **Rnd 11** K.  \n **Rnd 12** K3, M1, k to last 3 sts, M1, k3. 32 sts.  \n **Rnd 13** K.  \nRep last 2 rnds twice more. 36 sts.  \nPlace marker at beg of next rnd.  \n **Rnd 18** K.  \n **Rnd 19** K2, skpo, k to last 4 sts, k2tog, k2. 34 sts.  \n **Rnd 20** K.  \nRep last 2 rnds twice more. 30 sts.  \n **Rnd 25** *K4, k2tog, rep from * to end. 25 sts.  \n **Rnd 26** K.  \n **Rnd 27** *K3, k2tog, rep from * to end. 20 sts.  \n **Rnd 28** K.  \n **Rnd 29** *K2, k2tog, rep from * to end. 15 sts.  \n **Rnd 30** K.  \nStuff the mouse and cont to stuff it as you go.  \n **Rnd 31** *K1, k2tog, rep from * to end. 10 sts.  \n **Rnd 32** K.  \n **Rnd 33** *K2tog, rep from * to end. 5 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\nWHEELS (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 4 sts using **A** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 8 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 16 sts.  \nWork st st for 5 rows.  \n **Row 10** (RS) K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 8 sts.  \n **Row 11** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 4 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight, stuffing the wheel, and secure.  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap one toy eye into centre of each wheel. Alternatively, embroider French knots with yarn.\n\nEARS (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 3 sts, using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 5 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 7 sts.  \nWork st st for 4 rows.  \n **Row 9** (RS) K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 5 sts.  \n **Row 10** P2tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 3 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nSew the wheels to each side of the mouse.  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in the centre of the eye markings. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nSew on a length of kitten **MC** (or any spare yarn) as a simple tail.\n\n#\n\n## tortellini tortoise\n\n**Tortellini's shell is made in seven pieces, each knitted round and round.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in blue\/brown ( **A** )\n\n  Oddment in blue ( **B** )\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in beige ( **C** )\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in grey ( **MC** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 4 (3.5mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n **gauge**\n\n12 sts and 15 rows to 2in (5cm), using **MC** and size 4 (3.5mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if tortoise is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 18\u00bdin (47cm) diameter across the shell\n\nFascination and curiosity is what makes tortoises so desirable. Their ancient, almost dinosaur-like and characterful faces, their intricately patterned shells and their steady slow movements make them the perfect pet to watch and wonder over. This is Tortellini \u2013 and he is fascination in slow motion!\n\nThe choice of self-patterning yarn is so vast that each tortoise can be totally unique.\n\n### TORTOISE PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  Tortellini's shell is created with 7 hexagons.\n\n  The tortoise is worked in the round on double-pointed needles.\n\n  Do not use even safety eyes on toys for an infant, as they can be a potential choking hazard. Instead, embroider the eyes in place with thread.\n\nSHELL TOP HEXAGONS  \nCast on 60 sts using **A** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \nDivide sts evenly over 3 needles. Work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 1** (WS) K60.  \nRep last rnd once.  \n **Rnd 3** [K2tog, k6, skpo] 6 times. 48 sts.  \n **Rnd 4** K48.  \nRep last rnd once.  \n **Rnd 6** [K2tog, k4, skpo] 6 times. 36 sts.  \n **Rnd 7** K36.  \nRep last rnd once.  \n **Rnd 9** [K2tog, k2, skpo] 6 times. 24 sts.  \n **Rnd 10** K24.  \nRep last rnd once.  \nCut **A**. Join **B**.  \n **Rnd 12** K2tog 12 times. 12 sts.  \n **Rnd 13** K12.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.  \nRep patt to make 6 more hexagons.\n\nSHELL BASE  \nCast on 2 sts, using **C** and size 4 (3.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** K2.  \nWork as i-cord as follows:  \n **Row 2** Kfb twice. 4 sts.  \n **Row 3** Kfb 4 times. 8 sts.  \n **Row 4** Divide sts: k3 onto n1, k2 onto n2, k3 onto n3. With RS facing, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 5** [K1, kfb] 4 times. 12 sts.  \n **Rnd 6** [K2, kfb] 4 times. 16 sts.  \n **Rnd 7** [K3, kfb] 4 times. 20 sts.  \n **Rnd 8** [K4, kfb] 4 times. 24 sts.  \nCont to inc 4 sts on every rnd until last rnd has 11 sts before each inc. 52 sts.  \nPlace marker at beg of rnd, k all sts onto circular needle, shaping as follows:  \n **Next rnd** [K12, kfb] 4 times. 52 sts.  \n **Next rnd** [K13, kfb] 4 times. 56 sts.  \n **Next rnd** [K14, kfb] 4 times. 60 sts.  \nInc 4 sts on every rnd until last rnd has 31 sts before each inc. 132 sts.  \n **Next rnd** K132.  \nPlace marker.  \nRep last rnd 4 times more.  \nBind off. Weave in ends.\n\nHEAD  \nCast on 4sts using **MC** and size 4 (3.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) *Kfb, rep from * to end. 8 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 16 sts.  \n **Shape head**  \n **Row 5** (RS) K7, [M1, k1] twice, k7. 18 sts.  \n **Row 6** P.  \n **Row 7** Divide sts: k7 onto n1, k4 onto n2, k7 onto n3.  \nWith RS of facing, keeping gauge fairly tight in first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 8** K18.  \n **Rnd 9** K7, kfb, k2, kfb, k7. 20 sts.  \n **Rnd 10** K20.  \n **Rnd 11** K7, kfb, k4, kfb, k7. 22 sts.  \n **Rnd 12** K22.  \n **Rnd 13** Skpo, k5, kfb, k6, kfb, k5, k2tog.  \n **Rnd 14** K22.  \n **Rnd 15** Skpo, k4, kfb, k8, kfb, k4, k2tog.  \n **Rnd 16** K22.  \nRep last rnd 8 times more.  \n **Rnd 25** *K2tog, rep from * to end. 11 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\nLEGS (MAKE 4)  \nCast on 12 sts, using **MC** and size 4 (3.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) P.  \n **Row 2** K1, *M1, k1, rep from * to end. 23 sts.  \n **Row 3** P.  \n **Row 4** K1, M1, k8, [M1, k1] 6 times, k7, M1, k1. 31 sts.\n\nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Row 8** (WS) K13, k2tog, k1, skpo, k to end. 29 sts.  \n **Row 9** P.  \n **Row 10** K12, k2tog, k1, skpo, k to end. 27 sts.  \n **Row 11** P.  \n **Row 12** K7, bind off next 13 sts, k to end. 14 sts.  \n **Row 13** P14.  \n **Row 14** Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 16 sts.  \n **Row 15** P.  \n **Row 16** K1, k2tog, k1, skpo, k3, k2tog, k1, skpo, k2. 12 sts.  \nWork 7 rows in st st.  \n **Row 24** (WS) K1, k2tog, k1, skpo, k1, k2tog, k1, skpo. 8 sts.  \n **Row 25** *P2tog, rep from * to end. 4 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nHEAD  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nStuff the head and neck fairly firmly.  \nMattress stitch the seam around the nose.\n\nLEGS  \nWith right side (reverse stockingette stitch) facing, fold the front leg in half at the bind-off edge and matching the row ends. Beginning at the top of the leg, work mattress stitch to join along the leg front. Mattress stitch the opening at the inside edge of the foot closed.  \nFor claws, work three French knots or looped sts in **MC** along the narrower folded edge at the back of the foot. Repeat for the other feet.\n\nSHELL  \nPress the hexagons, using a cool iron and pressing cloth.  \nPiece the shell together with six hexagons around a central one. With matching yarn, backstitch the edges together. Press.  \nPress the base, retaining the bowl shape created by the shaping.  \nPin the top shell onto the upturned base, so that the top shell overhangs the base, stuffing it as you go.  \nSew in place.  \nManipulate the stuffing to give a good shape to the shell.\n\nHEAD  \nCreate a hollow at the front in the base, just under the top shell, and sew the bind-off edge of the neck into it. Make the head look as if it's just popping out from under the shell.\n\nLEGS  \nSew the legs in place to the base, just under the shell.\n\n#\n\n## bamber the labrador puppy\n\n**Bamber is quite easy to make, knitted in the round and with his i-cord tail.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in ecru ( **MC** )\n\n  Oddment in light brown ( **B** )\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply weight) yarn\n\n  Oddment in brown ( **A** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 2 (2.5mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 1 in- (8mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n**gauge**\n\n15sts and 19 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the puppy is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n**finished size**\n\nApprox. 8in (20cm) long (not including the tail) \u00d7 6in (12cm) tall\n\nCute, floppy, cuddly, adorable... oh, and a lot less messy than the real thing! Bamber brings his own collar and lead \u2013 though be warned, this particular pup loves to snuggle up and stay in rather than 'go walkies'.\n\nYou could always try different colours if you want a yellow or a chocolate lab.\n\n### PUPPY PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the body is worked in one piece from the nose to the tail.\n\n  The puppy is worked on double-pointed needles using the techniques i-cord and working in the round. Kitchener stitch is used to make a 'seamless' join.\n\n  If you are knitting for a very young child, embroider the eyes with thread instead of using toy eyes. Even safety eyes can be a choking hazard.\n\nHEAD, BODY, LEGS AND TAIL  \nCast on 3 sts using **A** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k1, kfb. 5 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \n **Shape nose**  \n **Row 3** K4, turn.  \n **Row 4** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 5** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 6** Sl 1, p2 to end.  \n **Row 7** Cast on 5 sts, k5, k2tog, k to end. 9 sts.  \n **Row 8** Cast on 5 sts, p5, p2 tog, p to end. 13 sts.  \n **Row 9** K.  \n **Row 10** P.  \nCut yarn.  \n **Shape jowls**  \n **Row 11** (RS) **MC** K1, [kfb] 3 times, k5, [kfb] 3 times, k1. 19 sts.  \n **Row 12** P.  \n **Row 13** K2, [kfb] 4 times, [k1, M1] twice, k3, [M1, k1] twice, [kfb] 4 times, k2. 31 sts.  \n **Row 14** P.  \n **Row 15** K10, [M1, k1] twice, k7, [M1, k1] twice, k10. 35 sts.  \n **Row 16** Sl 35 sts p-wise and divide: 12 sts onto n1, 11 sts onto n2, 12 sts onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 17** K.  \n **Rnd 18** K2tog 3 times, k8, M1, k2, M1, k3, M1, k2, M1, k8, k2tog 3 times. 33 sts.  \n **Rnd 19** K.  \n **Rnd 20** K2tog twice, k7, [M1, k2] twice, M1, k3, [M1, k2] twice, M1, k7, k2tog twice. 35 sts.  \n **Rnd 21** K.  \n **Rnd 22** K3, [M1, k2] 6 times, [M1, k1] 5 times, [M1, k2] 6 times, M1, k3. 53 sts.  \nDivide sts: 16 sts onto n1, 21 sts onto n2 (at top of nose), 16 sts onto n3.  \n **Shape eyebrows**  \n **Rnd 23** K16, skpo, k2tog, k13, k2tog tbl, skpo, k16. 49 sts.  \nPlace marker at beg of next rnd.  \n **Rnd 24** K.  \nRep last rnd 5 times more.  \n **Shape chin**  \n **Rnd 30** K2tog twice, k41, k2tog twice. 45 sts.  \n **Rnd 31** K.  \n **Divide for ears**  \nCont to work st st.  \n **Row 32** K30, turn.  \n **Row 33** P15, turn.  \nWork 5 rows.  \nCut yarn.  \nWith WS facing, sl these 15 sts onto a stitch holder.  \nSl rem 2 sts onto the adjacent needles, giving 15 sts on n1, 15 sts on n3.  \n **Shape head sides**  \nRejoin **MC** to right side of head.  \n **Row 39** (RS) K15 from n1, K15 from n2. 30 sts.  \nWith WS facing, sl 30 sts p-wise, dividing them equally over 2 needles. Cont working st st with n3.  \n **Row 40** (WS) P.  \n **Row 41** K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 28 sts.  \n **Row 42** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 26 sts.  \n **Row 45** K.  \n **Shape ears**  \n **Row 46** Pick up and k13 along the row end from where you divided for the left ear. Turn and work on these 13 sts.  \nWork 3 rows st st.  \n **Row 50** (RS) *Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 15 sts.  \n **Row 51** P.  \nRep last 2 rows 5 times more. 25 sts.  \n **Row 62** (RS) K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 23 sts.  \n **Row 63** P2tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 21 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows 4 times more. 5 sts.  \nBind off.**  \n **Row 72** (RS) **MC** Pick up and k13 along the row end from where you divided for the right ear.\n\nWork 3 rows st st.  \nRep from * to ** for the right ear.  \n **Complete head**  \nWith RS facing, sl 15 sts p-wise from the stitch holder for the top of the head onto size 2 (2.5mm) needle.  \n **Row 76** (RS) **MC** K15 across the back of the head.  \nWork in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 77** Pick up and k13 down the left side of the head, k13 up the right side of the head. 41 sts.  \nWithout turning, join in the rnd as follows:  \n **Shape back of head**  \n **Rnd 78** K7, sl1, k1, psso, k19. Place marker.  \n **Rnd 79** K.  \n **Rnd 80** K19, k2tog, k19. 39 sts.  \n **Rnd 81** K18, k3tog, k18. 37 sts.  \n **Rnd 82** K37.  \n **Rnd 83** K1, M1, k16, k3tog, k16, M1, k1.  \n **Rnd 84** K.  \n **Rnd 85** [K1, M1] twice, k15, k3tog, k15, [M1, k1] twice. 39 sts.  \nWork 2 more rnds.  \n **Shape neck**  \n **Rnd 88** [K3, M1] 12 times, k3. 51 sts.  \nWork 3 more rnds.  \n **Divide for front**  \n **Rnd 92** K44, sl next 17 sts onto a safety pin. 34 sts.  \nDivide sts: 10 sts on n1, 14 sts on n2, 10 sts on n3.  \n **Shape front legs**  \nWith WS facing, cont in st st and cast on 20 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 74 sts.  \n **Shape feet**  \n **Row 95** (WS) *P5, turn.  \n **Row 96** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 97** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 98** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 99** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Row 100** K5, turn.  \n **Row 101** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 102** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 103** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 104** Sl 1, k to end.  \nWork 9 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside front left leg**  \n **Row 114** (RS) K20, turn.  \nWork 9 rows in st st.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 124** (RS) k5, turn.  \n **Row 125** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 126** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 127** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 128** Sl 1, k17 to end.  \nBind off.  \n **Row 129** (RS) MC K. 54 sts.**  \n **Work inside front right leg**  \n **Row 130** (WS) p20, turn.  \nWork 9 rows in st st on these 20 sts for the inside right leg.\n\n**Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 140** (WS) ***P5, turn.  \n **Row 141** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 142** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 143** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 144** Sl 1, p17 to end.  \nBind off. ****  \n **Work body**  \n **Row 145** (WS) MC P. 34 sts.  \nWork 11 rows in st st.  \n **Shape back legs**  \nWith WS facing, cast on 20 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 84 sts.  \nWork the back legs as the front legs from * to **. 54 sts.  \nRejoin **MC**.  \n **Divide for tail**  \n **Row 159** (RS) K13, sl next 8 sts onto a safety pin, k33 under the tail to end of row. 46 sts. (Keep gauge tight as you knit under the sts held on safety pin.)  \n **Shape inside back right leg**  \n **Row 160** (WS) P20, turn.  \nWork 9 rows in st st.  \nWork as the inside front right leg from *** to ****.  \n **Shape underbody**  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to 26 sts.  \n **Next row** (RS) *K2, k2tog, rep from * to last 2 sts, k2. 20 sts.  \n **Next row** *P2tog, rep from * to end. 10 sts.\n\nWork 6 rows in st st.  \nCut yarn, leaving sts on needle.  \n **Work neck**  \nSl 17 sts for the neck off the safety pin onto size 2 (2.5mm) needle.  \n **Next row** (RS) **MC** K.  \nWork 35 rows in st st.  \nCut yarn, leaving sts on needle.  \n **Next row** (RS) *K1, k2tog, rep from * to end. 11 sts.  \n **Next row** P.  \n **Join seam under back legs**  \nCut yarn, leaving about 20in (50cm) end.  \nWith WS tog, hold needles parallel. Work Kitchener st to close the seam, taking off last st p-wise. Weave in end.  \n **Shape tail**  \nSl 8 sts for the tail off the safety pin onto size 2 (2.5mm) needle.  \nDivide sts over 3 needles.  \nCont working in the rnd.  \nWork 7 rnds.  \n **Next row** [K1, k2tog] 3 times. 5 sts.  \nSl sts onto one needle.  \nWork as i-cord until the tail measures 2\u00bein (7cm).  \n **Next row** K2tog, k1, k2tog. 3 sts.  \nWork as i-cord until the tail measures 3in (8cm).  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nWeave in the end at the tail.\n\nEYES  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place just under the eyebrow shaping. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.\n\nLEGS  \nWork mattress seam throughout to join the body parts. With wrong side facing, fold the front leg in half, joining the row ends and matching the foot shaping. Leaving the tops (bind-off edges) of the legs unsewn, sew the row ends to join the inside leg to the outer leg. Work running stitch around the bind-off edge at the foot, pull up tight to gather and secure. Stuff the leg fairly firmly, shaping the foot as you do so. Weave the end inside the foot. Repeat for all legs.\n\nHEAD  \nBeginning at the tail end, join the seam along the sides of the body and tops of the legs up to the front leg\/neck join, leaving an opening for stuffing.  \nStuff the dog, working stuffing fairly firmly into the head and to shape the jowl, but less firmly into the body to allow it to be a bit floppy. Sew the opening closed.\n\nFINISHING TOUCHES  \nWork straight stitches at the ends of the feet to create paws, pulling the yarn tightly to create four toes at the front of each foot.  \nPinch the knitting at the back of the knees, about 1in (2.5cm) from the feet, and then define this shaping with stitches.  \nUsing black cotton thread, embroider three straight sts in an upside-down Y shape directly under the nose to define a mouth.  \nManipulate the stuffing at the feet and along the neck and body to really give that puppy feel.\n\n### DOG LEAD PATTERN\n\nCast on 35 sts using **B** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \nTurn, with WS facing.  \nSl 35 sts p-wise and divide: 12 sts onto n1, 11 sts onto n2, 12 sts onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, join to work in the rnd.  \nPlace marker.  \n **Rnds 1\u20135** K.  \n **Rnd 6** Sl 1 st, cast off next 29 sts, k5.  \nSlide sts onto one needle.  \nWork as i-cord for 2 rnds.  \n **Rnd 9** K2tog, k1, k2tog. 3 sts.  \nWork as i-cord until the lead measures 4in (10cm).  \nBind off.  \nAt this bind-off end, loop the end over your finger and sew the cast-off edge onto the length of the lead. Weave in all loose ends.\n\n#\n\n## ravenous rats\n\n**The rats' bodies are knitted in stockinette stitch, with simple shaping and i-cord legs and tails.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\n_For each rat_\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  Oddment in brown, grey or ecru ( **MC** )\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply) yarn\n\n  Oddment in pink ( **A** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  2 \u00d7 size 2 (2.5mm) knitting needles\n\n  2 \u00d7 size 0 (2mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n_For each rat_\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black\/blue yarn)\n\n **gauge**\n\n15sts and 19 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles for st st\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the rats are a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 4\u00bdin (11.5cm) long (not including the tail) \u00d7 2in (5cm) tall\n\nTawny, Mouse (a rat called Mouse \u2013 I know \u2013 but she doesn't care!) and Whisker are three of the cleanest, most affectionate and lovable pets you will ever own. Some say they are unsurpassed by even the cutest kitten or cuddliest puppy \u2013 and they'll only eat all your biscuits if you leave them lying around!\n\nIt's worth seeking out blue eyes to make your white rat look just right.\n\n### GREY RAT PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the rat is worked in one piece from the head to the tail.\n\n  The rats are worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the i-cord technique.\n\n  Even safety eyes can present a choking hazard for a very young child. So, instead of using toy eyes, embroider the eyes with thread.\n\n  If you want a tighter fabric, simply knit on needles that are one size smaller than specified.\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The brown rat is worked as the grey rat, but using yarn **MC** for the tail and ears.\n\n  The white rat is worked as the grey rat, but using yarn **A** for the tail and ears.\n\nHEAD, LEGS, BODY AND TAIL  \nCast on 2 sts using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb twice. 4 sts.  \n **Row 2** *Pfkb, rep from * to end. 8 sts.  \n **Row 3** Kfb twice, k4, Kfb twice. 12 sts.  \n **Row 4** Pfkb, p to last st, pfkb. 14 sts.  \n **Row 5** Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 16 sts.  \nWork 7 rows in st st, beg with a p row.  \n **Shape top of head**  \n **Row 13** (RS) K11, turn.  \n **Row 14** Sl 1, p5, turn.  \n **Row 15** Sl 1, k4, turn.  \n **Row 16** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 17** K.  \n **Row 18** Pfkb twice, p to last 2 sts, pfkb twice. 20 sts.  \n **Row 19** Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 22 sts.  \nWork 3 rows in st st, beg with a p row.  \n **Divide for front legs**  \n **Row 23** (RS) Kfb 3 times, sl next 5 sts onto a safety pin, kfb 6 times, sl next 5 sts onto a safety pin, kfb 3 times. 24 sts. (Keep gauge tight as you knit under the sts held on safety pins.) Work 3 rows in st st, beg with a p row.  \n **Row 27** (RS) K12, M1, k12. 25 sts.  \n **Row 28** P.  \n **Row 29** K12, M1, k1, M1, k12. 27 sts.  \n **Row 30** P.  \n **Row 31** K13, M1, k1, M1, k13. 29 sts.  \n **Row 32** P.  \n **Row 33** K14, M1, k1, M1, k14. 31 sts.  \n **Row 34** P.  \n **Row 35** K15, M1, k1, M1, k15. 33 sts.  \n **Row 36** P.  \n **Row 37** K16, M1, k1, M1, k16. 35 sts.  \n **Row 38** P.  \n **Row 39** K16, k3tog, k16. 33 sts.  \n **Row 40** P.  \n **Row 41** K15, k3tog, k15. 31 sts.  \n **Row 42** P.  \n **Row 43** K14, k3tog, k14. 29 sts.  \n **Row 44** P.  \n **Row 45** K13, k3tog, k13. 27 sts.  \n **Row 46** P.  \n **Row 47** K12, k3tog, k12. 25 sts.  \n **Row 48** P.  \n **Divide for back legs**  \n **Row 49** (RS) K3, sl next 6 sts onto a safety pin, k7, sl next 6 sts onto a safety pin, k3. 13 sts. (Keep gauge tight as you purl in front of the sts held on safety pins.)  \n **Row 50** P.  \n **Divide for tail**  \n **Row 51** (RS) K2tog twice, k1, sl next 3 sts onto a safety pin, k1, k2tog twice. 6 sts. (Keep gauge tight as you knit under the sts held on safety pin.)  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.  \n ** **Work front legs (make 2)****  \nSl 5 sts held on the safety pin for one front leg onto size 0 (2mm) needle.\n\n**Row 52** (RS) **MC** K.  \nWork as i-cord for 6 more rows or until the leg measures \u00bein (2cm).  \nChange to **A** , work as i-cord for 7 more rows or until the leg measures 1\u00bdin (4cm).  \nBind off.  \n **Work back legs (make 2)**  \nSl 6 sts held on the safety pin for one back leg onto size 0 (2mm) needle.  \n **Row 66** (RS) **MC** K.  \nWork i-cord for 8 more rows or until the leg measures 1in (2.5cm).  \nChange to **A** , cont to work as i-cord for 2 more rows.  \n **Row 77** K2, k2tog, k2. 5 sts.  \nWork i-cord for 6 more rows or until the leg measures 2in (5cm).  \nBind off.  \n **Work tail**  \nSl 3 sts from the safety pin onto size 0 (2mm) needle.  \n **Row 84** (RS) **MC** K.  \nWork in i-cord for 2 more rows.  \nJoin **A** and work tog with **MC** until the tail measures 4in (10cm).  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\nEARS (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 5sts using **MC** and size 0 (2mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k3, kfb. 7 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \n **Row 3** K2, k3tog, k2. 5 sts.  \n **Row 4** P.  \n **Row 5** K1, k3tog, k1. 3 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n**MAKING UP**  \nHEAD  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nWith right side facing and working backstitch, join the head and body, leaving an opening in the belly for turning through and stuffing. Turn through.  \nStuff the head and neck without distorting the shaping or knitting. Sew the opening closed.  \nSew each ear to the side of the rat's head and embroider a nose using yarn **A** and straight stitches.\n\nBODY AND LEGS  \nOversew to close any gaps under the arms, legs or tail.  \nSew a couple of stitches to bend the back legs so they sit alongside the belly.  \nIf you wish, stitch the front feet together and sew the front legs to the sides of the body to bent them slightly.  \nCurl the tips of the feet under a little and hold in place with a couple of stitches to give the impression of tiny fists.\n\n#\n\n## biscuit the cat\n\n**Biscuit comines working in the round, i-cord and self-patterning yarn.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in ginger ( **MC** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n  Crochet hook (optional)\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n  Pink yarn for nose\n\n  Beige machine sewing thread for whiskers\n\n  Oddment of yarn and 1 bead for collar (optional)\n\n **gauge**\n\n13 sts and 16 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the cat is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 5in (13cm) long (not including the tail) \u00d7 4\u00bdin (11.5cm) tall (including the ears)\n\nHow do you fancy a teeny tiny biscuit \u2013 a ginger one naturally \u2013 but a ginger cat, not a real biscuit! This Biscuit is a stayat \u2013 home kind of cat, who likes nothing better than dozing in his very own knitted basket. He'll only condescend to wake up if there's a whiff of fish in the air.\n\nUse a tiny bead or tinkling bell for Biscuit's collar.\n\n### CAT PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the cat is worked in one piece from the nose to the tail.\n\n  The cat is worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the techniques i-cord and working in the round.\n\n  Do not use even safety eyes on toys for an infant, as they can be a potential choking hazard. Instead, embroider the eyes in place with thread.\n\n  You can knit any yarn with needles one size smaller than the size recommended on the ball band to give a tight fabric that doesn't allow the stuffing to show through.\n\nHEAD, BODY, LEGS AND TAIL  \nCast on 4 sts, using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) *Kfb, rep from * to end. 8 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 16 sts.  \n **Shape front of head**  \n **Row 5** K7, [M1, k1] twice, k7. 18 sts.  \n **Row 6** P.  \n **Row 7** Divide sts: k7 onto n1, k3 onto n2, k8 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 8** K18.  \n **Rnd 9** [M1, k3] 6 times. 24 sts.  \n **Rnd 10** K24.  \n **Rnd 11** K6, [M1, k1] 12 times, k6. 36 sts.  \n **Rnd 12** K36.  \nPlace marker at beg of next rnd.  \nRep last 2 rows.  \n **Divide for ears**  \n **Rnd 15** K10, sl next 6 sts onto a safety pin, kfb 4 times, sl next 6 sts onto a safety pin, k10. 28 sts. (Keep tension tight to avoid gaps as you knit under the sts on safety pins.)  \n **Shape side of head**  \n **Rnd 16** K3, bind off next 7 sts, k7, bind off next 7 sts, k2.  \nK next 3 sts so there are 6 sts for the neck on one needle.  \nCut yarn. Leave sts on needle.  \n **Work head back**  \nSlip 8 sts for the head back off the safety pin onto size 3 (3mm) needle.  \n **Row 17** (RS) **MC** K. turn.  \nWork 9 rows in st st.  \n **Join head back to neck**  \n **Row 27** (RS) K8, k across 6 sts from the neck. 14 sts.  \n **Row 28** P.  \nWork neck  \n **Row 29** Divide sts: k8 onto n1, k3 onto n2, k3 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 30** K14.  \nRep last rnd once more.  \n **Rnd 32** K4, M1, k5, kfb 4 times, k1. 19 sts.  \n **Rnd 33** K19.  \n **Rnd 34** K4, M1, k1, M1, k8, kfb twice, k4. 23 sts.  \n **Rnd 35** K23.  \n **Rnd 36** K16, kfb twice, k5. 25 sts.  \n **Rnd 37** K25.  \n **Divide for front**  \n **Rnd 38** K22, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin. K17, turn.  \nWith WS facing, back and forth on 2 needles as follows:  \n **Shape front legs**  \nWith WS facing, cast on 18 sts at beg of next 2 rows.  \n53 sts.  \n **Shape feet**  \n **Row 41** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 42** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 43** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 44** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 45** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Row 46** K5, turn.  \n **Row 47** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 48** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 49** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 50** Sl 1, k to end.  \nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside front left leg**  \n **Row 54** (RS) K18, turn.  \nWork 3 rows in st st on these 18 sts for the inside left leg.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 58** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 59** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 60** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 61** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 62** Sl 1, k15 to the end of the leg, turn.  \nBind off 18 sts.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin yarn to foot end of right leg.  \n **Work inside front right leg**  \n **Row 63** (WS) P18, turn.  \n **Row 64** K.  \n **Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 65** (WS) p5, turn.  \n **Row 66** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 67** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 68** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 69** Sl 1, p15 to the end of the leg, turn.  \nBind off 18 sts.  \nLeave 17 sts from the back on the needle and return to the front as follows:  \n **Work front**  \nSl 8 sts at the neck off the safety pin onto size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 70** (RS) **MC** K.  \nWork 7 rows in st st, so ending with a WS row.  \n **Join front to back**  \n **Row 78** (RS) K8, k8 from the back onto n2, k9 from the back onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge tight across junctions, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 79** K25.  \n **Shape back**  \n **Rnd 80** K16, M1, k1, M1, k8. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 81** K27.  \n **Rnd 82** K17, M1, k1, M1, k9. 29 sts.  \n **Rnd 83** K29.  \nPlace marker and rep last rnd 3 times more.  \n **Divide for back legs**  \n **Rnd 87** K8, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin, cast on 3 sts, k to end. 24 sts.  \nCont to work in st st, shaping the back as follows:  \n **Row 88** (WS) Cast on 3 sts, p to end. 27 sts.  \n **Row 89** Cast on 3 sts, k16, M1, k1, M1, k to end. 32 sts.  \n **Row 90** Cast on 3 sts, p to end. 35 sts.  \n **Row 91** Cast on 2 sts, k19, M1, k1, M1, k to end. 39 sts.  \n **Row 92** Cast on 2 sts, p to end. 41 sts.  \nWork 4 rows in st st.  \n **Row 97** (RS) K19, k3tog, k to end. 39 sts.  \n **Row 98** P.  \n **Divide for tail**  \n **Row 99** (RS) K17, sl next 5 sts onto a safety pin, k17 sts under the tail to end. 34 sts. (Keep tension tight to avoid gaps as you knit under the sts on safety pins.)  \n **Row 100** P16, p2tog, p to end. 33 sts.  \n **Row 101** K15, k3tog, k to end. 31 sts.  \n **Row 102** P9, p2tog 3 times, p1, p3tog 3 times, p to end. 25 sts.  \n **Shape inside back left leg**  \n **Row 103** (RS) Bind off 2 sts, k6, turn.  \n **Row 104** P7.  \n **Row 105** Bind off 3 sts, k3, turn.  \nBind off 4 sts.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **MC** to the foot end of the right leg.  \n **Shape inside back right leg**  \n **Row 106** (WS) Bind off 2 sts, p6, turn.  \n **Row 107** K7.  \n **Row 108** Bind off 3 sts, p3, turn.  \nBind off 4 sts.  \n **Row 109** (WS) Rejoin **MC** to rem 7 sts and k to end.  \nWork st st for 15 rows, so ending with a WS row.  \nCut yarn, leaving about 12in (30cm) tail.  \n **Join seam under back legs**  \nSl 8 sts from the under body off the safety pin onto size 3 (3mm) needles.  \nWith WS tog, hold needles parallel. Work Kitchener st to close the seam, taking off last st p-wise. Weave in end.\n\n**Work lower left back leg**  \n **Row 125** *With RS facing, pick up and k8 along the row end at the end of the upper leg.  \n **Row 126** (W) P.  \nDivide all 8 sts evenly over 2 needles. With RS facing, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 127** K8.  \nRep last rnd 9 times more.  \nShape foot  \n **Rnd 137** M1, k1, M1, k5, [M1, k1] twice. 12 sts.  \n **Rnd 138** K12.  \n **Rnd 139** M1, k1, M1, k9, [M1, k1] twice. 16 sts.  \n **Rnd 140** K16.  \nBind off. **  \nWork the lower right back leg from * to **.\n\nEARS (MAKE 2)  \nSl 6 sts for one ear off the safety pin onto size 3 (3mm) needle. With RS facing, rejoin **MC** and cont in st st.  \n **Row 1** K across.  \n **Row 2** (WS) P2tog, p to last 2 sts, p2tog. 4 sts.  \n **Row 3** k2tog twice. 2 sts.  \n **Row 4** P2tog. 1 st.  \nFasten off.\n\nTAIL  \nSl 7 sts for the tail off the safety pin onto size 3 (3mm) needle.  \nWork as i-cord until the tail measures 3\u00bd in (9cm).  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nHEAD  \nCarefully turn the work to the wrong side. Backstitch the row ends at the side of the head. To join the nose, bring its tip (the bind-off end) down to the point where you began to work in the round. Join along the row ends, along two sides of the triangle you have created. Carefully turn right side out. Push out the shaping at the nose.\n\nEYES  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nStuff the head and neck fairly firmly.\n\nNOSE AND WHISKERS  \nEmbroider the tip of the nose, working a couple of stitches in pink yarn.  \nCut short lengths of thread for the whiskers. Thread one length into a darning needle and pass it through a knitted stitch in the nose, so both ends are the same length. Make another stitch to secure.  \nWork other strands into other knitted sts to create more whiskers. Trim.\n\nEARS  \nWeave in the tail of yarn at the tip of the ear. Oversew the opening behind the ear closed, joining the back base of the ear to the head. Repeat for the other ear.  \nIf your want to make the ears stand up, dampen them and gently press flat, using a pressing cloth. Alternatively, use the sugar solution method.\n\nFRONT LEGS  \nWith wrong side facing, fold the front leg in half, joining the row ends and matching the foot shaping. Leaving the tops (bind-off edges) of the legs unsewn, mattress stitch the row ends to join the inside leg to the outer leg. Work a running stitch around the bind-off end at the foot, pull it up tight to gather and secure.  \nUsing tweezers, stuff the leg fairly firmly and shape the foot. Weave in the end. Stuff and shape the other foot to match.\n\nBACK LEGS  \nStuff the feet. Attach the feet to the back legs, using mattress stitch and matching the front seam of the leg with the front of the foot.\n\nBODY  \nBeginning at the tail end, join the seam along the sides of the body and around the tops of the legs, leaving an opening for stuffing.  \nStuff the body quite lightly \u2013 the cat should be able to stand, but not be too stiff to sit down. Sew the opening closed. Manipulate the stuffing in the legs and feet and along the neck and body to get a good shape.\n\nCOLLAR  \nCrochet a chain of yarn and attaching a bead to create a collar and bell.\n\n#\n\n## biscuit's basket\n\n**Biscuit's basket is easy to knit on nice big needles.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball ( **A** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 5 (3.75mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **gauge**\n\n11 sts and 15 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **A** and size 5 (3.75mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the basket is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 4\u00bein (12cm) diameter \u00d7 1 in (3cm) high\n\nWhere would Biscuit be without his basket? Left exposed on the hearth, that's where. This squishy squoshy basket gives Biscuit all the home comforts he needs.\n\nChoose a two-toned yarn for a really handcrafted basket.\n\n### BASKET PATTERN\n\nBASE  \nCast on 2 sts using **A** and size 5 (3.75mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** K2.  \nWork as i-cord as follows:  \n **Row 2** Kfb twice. 4 sts.  \n **Row 3** Kfb 4 times. 8 sts.  \n **Row 4** Divide sts: k3 onto n1, k2 onto n2, k3 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, work in the round as follows:  \n **Rnd 5** [K1, kfb] 4 times. 12 sts.  \n **Rnd 6** [K2, kfb] 4 times. 16 sts.\n\n**Rnd 7** [K3, kfb] 4 times. 20 sts.  \n **Rnd 8** [K4, kfb] 4 times. 24 sts.  \nCont to inc 4 sts on every rnd until there are 15 sts before each inc. 68 sts.  \nPlace marker. Work 2 rnds without shaping.  \nBind off. Weave in ends.  \nIf necessary, press with a cool iron to flatten the base into a disk.\n\nRIM  \nCast on 8 sts using **A** and size 5 (3.75mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** K2, p2, k2, p2.  \n **Row 2** Rep last row.  \n **Row 3** Rep last row.  \n **Row 4** P2, k2, p2, k2.  \n **Row 5** Rep last row.  \n **Row 6** Rep last row.  \nRep rows 1\u20136 until work measures the same as the circumference of the base.  \nBind off.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nOversew cast-on and bind-off edges on the rim. Then oversew the base to the rim. Fold the top of the rim to the inside of the basket and stitch in place if you wish.\n\n#\n\n## reggie veggie the stegosaurus\n\n**Reggie's back plates are knitted with two strands of yarn to make them stiff enough to stand upright.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  2 \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in green ( **MC** )\n\n  1 \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in dark green ( **A** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 6 (4mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n  Black cotton thread\n\n **gauge**\n\n11 sts and 14 rows to 2in (5cm) in st st, using **MC** and size 6 (4mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the stegosaurus is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 13\u00bcin (34cm) long (including the tail) \u00d7 7\u00bcin (19cm) tall\n\nCan you imagine how crazy \u2013 but wonderful \u2013 it would be to have a little pet dinosaur. What would your friends think? Well meet Reggie Veggie! This little chap is second only to the real thing. And he's always on the look out for scraps of food \u2013 if he were any bigger, he'd eat you out of house and home, I'm sure!\n\nOnce you've knitted Reggie, try adapting the techniques to make other prehistoric monsters.\n\n### STEGOSAURUS PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The stegosaurus is worked in the round on double-pointed needles.\n\n  If you are knitting for a very young child, embroider the eyes with thread instead of using toy eyes. Even safety eyes can be a choking hazard.\n\n  Once you've mastered the techniques, try knitting with one size smaller needles to give a tighter fabric that gives stuffing no chance to show through.\n\nHEAD, BODY, LEGS AND TAIL  \nCast on 8 sts using **MC** and size 6 (4mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** *Kfb, rep from * to end. 16 sts.  \nWork 7 rows in st st.  \n **Shape head**  \n **Row 10** (RS) K2, [M1, k1] twice, k2, kfb 4 times, k2, ([k1, M1] twice, k1. 24 sts.  \n **Row 11** P.  \n **Row 12** Divide sts: k8 onto n1, k8 onto n2, k8 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 13** K24.  \n **Rnd 14** Skpo, k20, k2tog. 22 sts.  \n **Rnd 15** K9, skpo, k2tog, k9. 20 sts.  \n **Rnd 16** K8, skpo, k2tog, k8. 18 sts.  \n **Rnd 17** K7, skpo, k2tog, k7. 16 sts.  \n **Rnd 18** K16.  \n **Rnd 19** Kfb, k14, kfb. 18 sts.  \n **Shape first set of plates**  \n **Rnd 20** K8, [picot 1] twice, k8.  \n **Rnd 21** K18.  \n **Rnd 22** Kfb, k16, kfb. 20 sts.  \n **Rnd 23** K9, [picot 3] twice, k9.\n\n**Rnd 24** K20.  \nRep last rnd once more.  \n **Rnd 26** K9, [picot 5] twice, k9.  \n **Rnd 27** K20.  \n **Rnd 28** Kfb, k18, kfb. 22 sts.  \n **Rnd 29** Kfb, k8, kfb 4 times, k8, kfb. 28 sts.  \n **Divide for plates**  \n **Row 30** K16, turn.  \n **Row 31** (WS) P2, sl last 2 sts onto a safety pin, p26, working sts onto 3 needles. 26 sts.  \nCont working back and forth around the sides and belly as follows:  \n **Row 32** (RS) Kfb, k26, kfb. 28 sts.  \n **Row 33** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 30 sts.  \n **Divide for front legs**  \n **Row 36** (RS) Kfb, k18, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin, k10, kfb.  \n **Work right side**  \n **Row 37** (WS) P12.  \n **Work right leg**  \n **Row 38** Cast on 12 sts, k23, kfb. 25 sts.  \n **Row 39** P.  \n **Shape foot**  \n **Row 40** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 41** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 42** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 43** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 44** Sl 1, k to last st, kfb. 26 sts.  \n **Row 45** P.  \n **Row 46** K to last st, kfb. 27 sts.  \n **Row 47** P.  \n **Work inside front right leg**  \n **Row 48** (RS) k12, turn.  \nWork 3 rows in st st on these 12 sts.  \n **Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 52** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 53** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 54** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 55** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 56** Sl 1, k9 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 12 sts.  \n **Row 57** With WS facing, rejoin **MC** to rem sts for the right side, k to last st, kfb. 16 sts.  \nWork 7 rows in st st.  \n **Row 65** (RS) K2tog, [k1, M1] twice, k12. 17 sts.  \n **Row 66** P.  \n **Work right back leg**  \n **Row 67** (RS) Cast on 14 sts, k15, [M1, k1] 3 times, k13. 34 sts.  \n **Row 68** P.  \n **Shape foot**  \n **Row 69** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 70** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 71** Sl 1, k2, turn.\n\n**Row 72** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 73** Sl 1, k to end.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside back right leg**  \n **Row 79** (RS) K14, turn.  \nWork 5 rows in st st on these 14 sts for the inside right leg.  \n **Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 85** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 86** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 87** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 88** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 89** Sl 1, k11 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 14 sts.  \nLeave rem 20 sts from the right side on a needle.  \n **Work left side**  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to 12 sts from the left side.  \n **Row 90** (RS) Kfb, k to end. 13 sts.  \n **Work left leg**  \n **Row 91** (WS) Cast on 12 sts, p to end. 25 sts.  \n **Row 92** Kfb, k to end. 26 sts.  \n **Shape foot**  \n **Row 93** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 94** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 95** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 96** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 97** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Row 98** Kfb, k to end. 27 sts.  \n **Row 99** P.  \n **Row 100** Kfb, k to end. 28 sts.  \n **Work inside front left leg**  \n **Row 101** (WS) P12, turn.  \nOn these 12 sts for the inside right leg, work 3 rows in st st.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 105** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 106** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 107** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 108** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 109** Sl 1, p9 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 12 sts.  \n **Row 110** (WS) Rejoin yarn to rem 16 sts for the left side, p across.  \nWork 6 rows in st st.  \n **Row 117** (RS) K12, [M1, k1] twice, k2tog. 17 sts.  \n **Row 118** P.  \n **Row 119** P14, [M1, k1] 3 times. 20 sts.  \n **Work left back leg**  \n **Row 120** (WS) Cast on 14 sts, p to end. 34 sts.  \n **Row 121** K.  \n **Shape foot**  \n **Row 122** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 123** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 124** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 125** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 126** Sl 1, p to end.  \nWork 5 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside back left leg**  \n **Row 132** (WS) P14, turn.  \nWork 5 rows in st st on these 14 sts for the inside left leg.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 138** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 139** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 140** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 141** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 142** Sl 1, p11 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 14 sts. Cut yarn.  \nLeave rem 20 sts from the left side on a needle.  \n **Work neck\/gusset**  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** to 8 sts on the safety pin from the neck.  \n **Row 143** (RS) K.  \nWork 25 rows in st st.  \n **Join gusset to sides**  \n **Row 169** (RS) K8 from the gusset, [k1, k2tog, k17] from the left side, turn. 27 sts.  \n **Row 170** P2tog, p24, [p1, p2tog, p15, p2tog] from the right side. 44 sts.  \n **Row 171** K2tog, k15, k2tog, k6, k2tog, k15, k2tog. 40 sts.  \n **Row 172** P2tog, p13, p2tog, p6, p2tog, p13, p2tog. 36 sts.  \n **Row 173** K2tog, k11, k2tog, k6, k2tog, k11, k2tog. 32 sts.  \n **Shape tail**  \n **Row 174** (WS) P2tog, p9, p2tog, p6, p2tog, p9, p2tog. 28 sts.  \n **Row 175** K2tog, k7, k2tog, k6, k2tog, k7, k2tog. 24 sts.  \n **Row 176** P2tog, p5, p2tog, p6, p2tog, p5, p2tog. 20 sts.  \n **Row 177** Divide sts: k7 onto n1, k6 onto n2, k7 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first round, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 178** K20.  \n **Rnd 179** K19, Sl 1, k1 (from beg of next rnd), pass slipped st over. 19 sts.  \n **Rnd 180** Picot 6, k16, picot 6, k1.  \n **Rnd 181** K19.  \n **Rnd 182** K2tog, k18, k2tog. 17 sts.  \n **Rnd 183** K5, k2tog, k3, k2tog, k5. 15 sts.  \n **Rnd 184** K15.  \n **Rnd 185** Picot 4, k12, picot 4, k1.  \n **Rnd 186** K15.  \n **Rnd 187** K2tog, k11, k2tog. 13 sts.  \n **Rnd 188** K13.  \n **Rnd 189** Picot 2, k10, picot 2, k1.  \n **Rnd 190** K13.  \nRep last rnd 5 times more.  \n **Rnd 196** Picot 8, k9, picot 8, k2.  \n **Rnd 197** K13.  \nRep last rnd 5 times more.  \nRep last 7 rnds once more.  \n **Rnd 210** K1, [k2tog, k1] 4 times. 9 sts.  \n **Rnd 211** K9.  \n **Rnd 212** K1, [k2tog, k2] twice. 7 sts.  \n **Rnd 213** K7.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\nPLATES (MAKE 2 SETS, A and B)  \nCast on 3 sts, using double strand of **A** and size 6 (4mm) needles.  \n _For set A only:_  \nWork 5 rows: K.  \n _For both sets, A and B:_  \n **Plate 1**  \n **Row 1** (RS) K2, yon, k1. 4 sts.  \n **Row 2** K.  \n **Row 3** K2, yon, k2. 5 sts.  \n **Row 4** K.  \n **Row 5** K2, yon, k3. 6 sts.  \n(Rows 1\u20135 form patt for each triangular plate.)  \n **Row 6** K.  \n **Row 7** K2, yon, k4. 7 sts.  \n **Row 8** K.  \n **Row 9** Bind off 4 sts, k2. 3 sts.  \nK 4 rows.  \n **Plate 2**  \nPatt 5 rows.  \n **Row 19** (RS) K.  \n **Row 20** K2, yon, k4. 7 sts.  \n **Row 21** K.  \n **Row 22** K2, yon, k5. 8 sts.  \n **Row 23** K.  \n **Row 24** K2, yon, k6. 9 sts.  \n **Row 25** Bind off 6 sts, k2. 3 sts.  \nK 4 rows.  \n **Plate 3**  \nPatt 5 rows.  \n **Row 35** (RS) K.  \n **Row 36** K2, yon, k4. 7 sts.  \n **Row 37** K.  \n **Row 38** K2, yon, k5. 8 sts.  \n **Row 39** K.  \n **Row 40** K2, yon, k6. 9 sts.  \n **Row 41** K.  \n **Row 42** K2, yon, k7. 10 sts.  \n **Row 43** Bind off 7 sts, k2. 3 sts.  \nK 4 rows.  \n **Plate 4**  \nPatt 5 rows.  \n **Row 53** (RS) K.  \n **Row 54** K2, yon, k4. 7 sts.  \n **Row 55** K.  \n **Row 56** K2, yon, k5. 8 sts.  \n **Row 57** Bind off 5 sts, k2. 3 sts.  \nK 4 rows.  \n _For Set A only:_ Bind off 3 sts.  \n _For Set B only:_ Cont with plate 5.  \n **Plate 5**  \nPatt 5 rows.  \n **Row 67** Bind off 3 sts, k2. 3 sts.  \nK 4 rows.  \nBind off.  \nSew one set of plates to the inside of each side of the opening along the back.  \n **Backbone**  \nRejoin **MC** to 2 sts on the safety pin where the back divides for the plates.  \n **Next row** K2.  \nWork as i-cord until the backbone measures the length of the opening between the plates.  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nHEAD  \nWorking mattress stitch, join the seam under the nose and chin. Embroider a couple of straight sts in black thread at the tip of the nose for nostrils.\n\nEYES  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nStuff the head and neck fairly firmly, manipulating the stuffing into the shaping at the top of the head.\n\nFRONT LEGS  \nWith wrong side facing, fold the front leg in half, joining the row ends and matching the foot shaping. Leaving the tops (bind-off edges) of the legs unsewn, mattress stitch the row ends to join the inside leg to the outer leg. Work a running stitch around the bind-off end at the foot. Stuff the foot. Pull the thread up tight to gather and secure. Weave in the thread.\n\nBACK LEGS  \nJoin the back legs along the row ends, leaving the cast-on and bind-off edges unsewn.\n\nBODY  \nMattress stitch the short seams at the front and back legs along the sides of the body and around the tops of the front and back legs.  \nStuff the tail quite lightly.  \nJoin the backbone to each side of the plates to close the opening, stuffing the body as you do so.  \nManipulate the stuffing to shape the head and feet.\n\n#\n\n## pip and pop ponies\n\n**It's very easy to secure embroidery floss to make glamorous swishy tails and manes.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n_For the white pony_\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in white ( **MC** )\n\n_For the grey pony_\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in grey ( **A** )\n\n  Oddment in white for muzzle ( **MC** )\n\n_For both ponies_\n\n  Oddment in pink ( **B** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 4 (3.5mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n_For each pony_\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n  1 \u00d7 skein stranded embroidery floss in grey\/beige for mane\n\n  Black thread for nostrils and eyelashes\n\n **gauge**\n\n12 sts and 15 rows to 2in (5cm) in st st, using **MC** and size 4 (3.5mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the ponies are a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 5\u00bd in (14cm) long (not including the tail) \u00d7 9in (23 cm) tall (including the ears)\n\nPip and Pop are tiny pocket ponies to pamper and play with. I can just imagine these equine buddies galloping wildly around a lush green field \u2013 manes flopping, tails flicking \u2013 having a wonderful frolick.\n\nWork the white pony without the change of yarn given for the grey pony.\n\n### PONY PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the pony is worked in one piece from the nose to the tail.\n\n  The ponies are worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the techniques i-cord and working in the round.\n\n  Even safety eyes can present a choking hazard for a very young child. So, instead of using toy eyes, embroider the eyes with thread.\n\n  If you want a tighter fabric, simply knit on needles that are one size smaller than specified.\n\nHEAD, EARS, BODY, LEGS AND EARS  \nCast on 7 sts, using **MC** and **B** tog, and size 4 (3.5mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 9 sts.  \n **Row 2** P.  \nCut **B** and cont in **MC**.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 11 sts.  \n **Shape sides of head**  \n **Row 5** (RS) Kfb twice, k to last 2 sts, kfb twice. 15 sts.  \n **Row 6** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 19 sts.  \nWork 4 rows in st st.  \n **Row 13** Divide sts: k6 onto n1s, k7 onto n2, k6 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 14** K19.  \n **Rnd 15** [M1, k1] twice, k15, [M1, k1] twice. 23 sts.  \n _White pony:_ Cont in **MC**.  \n _Grey pony only:_ Cut **MC** and cont in **A**.  \n **Rnd 16** K8, place marker for the outer edge of one ear, k7, place marker for the outer edge of the other ear, k8.  \n **Shape back of head**  \n **Rnd 17** K19, skpo, turn.  \n **Row 18** (WS) Sl 1, p15, p2tog, turn.  \n **Row 19** Sl 1, k14, skpo, turn.  \n **Row 20** Sl 1, p13, p2tog, turn.  \n **Row 21** Sl 1, k12, skpo, turn.  \n **Row 22** Sl 1, p11, p2tog, turn.  \n **Row 23** Sl 1, k14 to beg of rnd, keeping gauge tight across decr, turn.  \n **Row 24** Sl 1, p16, turn.  \n **Row 25** K17. Join for working in rnd.  \nRep last rnd once more.  \n **Shape neck**  \n **Rnd 27** Kfb, k6, k3tog, k6, kfb.  \n **Rnd 28** K17.  \nRep last 2 rows once more.  \n **Rnd 31** Kfb twice, k5, k3tog, k5, kfb twice. 19 sts.  \n **Rnd 32** Divide sts: k5 onto n1, k9 onto n2, k5 onto n3.  \n **Rnd 33** Kfb twice, k6, k3tog, k6, kfb twice. 21 sts.  \n **Rnd 34** K21.  \nPlace marker.  \nK 7 rnds.  \n **Shape shoulders**  \n **Rnd 42** K1, [M1, k1] 3 times, k14, [M1, k1] 3 times. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 43** K27.  \n **Divide for front**  \n **Rnd 44** K4, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin, k6, M1, k7, M1, k6, turn. 21 sts.  \nWith WS facing, work back and forth as follows:  \n **Shape front legs**  \nWith WS facing, cast on 22 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 65 sts.  \n **Shape feet**  \n **Row 47** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 48** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 49** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 50** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 51** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Row 52** K5, turn.  \n **Row 53** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 54** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 55** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 56** Sl 1, k to end.  \nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside front left leg**  \n **Row 60** (RS) K22, turn.  \nWork 3 rows in st st on these 22 sts.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 64** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 65** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 66** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 67** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 68** Sl 1, k19 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 22 sts.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **MC** \/ **A** to the foot end of the right leg.  \n **Work inside front right leg**  \n **Row 69** (WS) P22, turn.  \n **Row 70** K.  \n **Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 71** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 72** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 73** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 74** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 75** Sl 1, p19 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 22 sts.  \nLeave rem 21 sts from the back on the needles.  \n **Work front**  \nSl 8 sts at the neck off the safety pin onto size 4 (3.5mm) needles. Rejoin **MC\/A**.  \n **Row 76** (RS) K.  \nWork 9 rows in st st.  \n **Join front to back**  \n **Row 86** (RS) K8, K13 from the back onto n2, k8 from the back onto n3. 29 sts.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge tight across junctions, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Shape tummy**  \n **Rnd 87** (RS) K8, [k2, M1] 3 times, k9, [M1, k2] 3 times. 35 sts.  \n **Rnd 88** K35.  \n **Shape back**  \n **Rnd 89** K8, [k1, M1] 3 times, k9, k3tog, k9, [M1, k1] 3 times. 39 sts.\n\n**Rnd 90** K39.  \n **Rnd 91** K23, M1, k1, M1, k15. 41 sts.  \n **Rnd 92** K41.  \n **Rnd 93** K8, skpo, k14, M1, k1, M1, k14, k2tog.  \n **Rnd 94** K41.  \nRep last 2 rnds 3 times more.  \n **Divide for back legs**  \n **Rnd 101** K8, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin, K33. 33 sts.  \nWith WS facing, work back and forth as follows:  \nCast on 3 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 39 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 45 sts.  \nCast on 4 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 53 sts.  \n **Shape bottom**  \n **Row 108** (RS) K25, k3tog, k to end. 51 sts.  \n **Row 109** P.  \n **Row 110** K24, k3tog, k to end. 49 sts.  \n **Row 111** P.  \n **Row 112** K23, k3tog, k to end. 47 sts.  \n **Row 113** P.  \n **Row 114** K22, k3tog, k to end. 45 sts.  \n **Shape inside back right leg**  \n **Row 115** (WS) P10, turn.  \n **Row 116** K.  \n **Row 117** Bind off 4 sts, p5, turn.  \n **Row 118** K6.  \n **Row 119** Bind off 3 sts, p2, turn.  \nBind off 3 sts.  \nWith RS facing, rejoin **MC** \/ **A** to the foot end of the back left leg.  \n **Shape inside back left leg**  \n **Row 120** (RS) Bind off 4 sts, k5, turn.  \n **Row 121** P6.  \n **Row 122** Bind off 3 sts, k2, turn.  \nBind off 3 sts.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **MC** \/ **A** to rem 25 sts. Bind off.  \n **Work front**  \nSl 8 sts from the underbody, where work divided for the back legs, off the safety pin onto size 6 (4mm) needles.  \n **Row 123** (RS) **MC** \/ **A** K.  \nWork 17 rows in st st.  \n **Row 141** (RS) K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 6 sts.  \n **Row 142** P.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 4 sts.  \n **Row 145** K2tog twice. 2 sts.  \nBind off.  \n **Work left lower back leg**  \n **Row 146** *(RS) pick up and k10 along the row end at the end of the upper leg.  \n **Row 147** (WS) P.  \n **Row 148** Divide sts: k3 onto n1, k4 onto n2, k3 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 149** K10.  \nRep last rnd 4 times more.  \n **Shape hoof**  \n **Rnd 154** K4, k2tog, k4. 9 sts.  \n **Rnd 155** Kfb twice, k5, kfb twice. 13 sts.  \n **Rnd 156** Kfb twice, k9, kfb twice. 17 sts.  \n **Rnd 157** K17.  \nRep last rnd twice more.  \n **Rnd 160** Skpo 4 times, k1, k2tog 4 times. 9 sts.  \nCut the yarn and thread the end through the rem sts. ** Work lower right back leg as left one from * to **.  \n **Shape ears**  \nBeg at one of the markers at the top of the head:  \n **Row 161** (RS) **MC\/A** *Pick up and k3 towards the centre top of the head. Break yarn on WS and tie loose ends tog.  \n **Row 162** Rejoin **MC** \/ **A** to 3 'picked up' sts, k. 3sts.  \nWork i-cord as follows:  \n **Row 163** Kfb, k1, kfb. 5 sts.  \n **Row 164** K.  \n **Row 165** Kfb, k3, kfb.  \n **Row 166** K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 5 sts.  \n **Row 167** K2tog, k1, k2tog. 3 sts.  \n **Row 168** K3tog.** 1 st.  \nFasten off. Weave the end to the WS.  \nBeg at the other marker, rep from * to ** for other ear.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nTAIL  \nCut 10in (25cm) lengths of embroidery floss to make a tail. Thread one length into a darning needle and pass it through a knitted stitch at the horse's rear end, so both ends are the same length. Make another stitch to secure. Work other lengths into other knitted stitches to create a tail. Trim.\n\nMANE  \nCut shorter lengths of embroidery floss and attach them between the ears and down the neck in the same way as for the tail.\n\nHEAD  \nCarefully turn the work to the wrong side. Work backstitch to join around the muzzle.\n\nEYES  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.\n\nHEAD  \nJoin any gaps at in the head shaping with mattress stitch.  \nStuff the head and neck fairly firmly.  \nWeave in the end at the tip of the ear along one row end to the base of each ear.\n\nFRONT LEGS  \nWith wrong side facing, fold the front leg in half, joining the row ends and matching the foot shaping. Leaving the tops (bind-off edges) of the legs unsewn, mattress stitch the row ends to join the inside leg to the outer leg. Work a running stitch around the bind-off end at the foot. Stuff the foot. Pull the thread up tight to gather and secure. Weave in the thread. Repeat for the other front foot.  \nStart to stuff the legs, putting a little stuffing into the knees and thighs.\n\nBACK LEGS  \nSew up and stuff as for the front legs.\n\nBODY  \nMattress stitch the short seams at the front legs along the sides of the body and around the tops of the front legs, easing the fullness to fit the shapings.  \nMattress stitch the gusset at the back legs up to the back tail in the same way, leaving an opening for stuffing.  \nStuff the body quite lightly. Sew the opening closed. Manipulate the stuffing at the legs, feet, neck and body to create the correct shapes.\n\nFACE  \nFor nostrils, work a couple of stitches over each other near the end of the nose, in contrasting yarn, to pinch the muzzle in a little. Work a few stitches of black thread around the top edge of the yarn to create a shadow.  \nEmbroider eyelashes around the eyes.\n\n#\n\n## charlie the chameleon\n\n**Despite his delicate legs and bug eyes, Charlie is created with i-cord and working in the round \u2013 no more difficult than the other pets.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  1 \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball of sock\/self-striping yarn ( **MC** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  2 \u00d7 size 2 (2.5mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 0 (2mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n **gauge**\n\n15 sts and 19 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the chameleon is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 4in (10cm) long (with the tail curled up) \u00d7 2in (5cm) tall\n\nI've often wondered \u2013 as chameleons change colour to blend with their surroundings \u2013 what would happen if one sat on a bright piece of Fair Isle? Well, this is Charlie and he certainly is a bright little chap. If you make him your pet, make sure there are plenty of bugs for his supper packed away in your freezer...\n\nCharlie's psychedelic colours are easy to create using self-striping yarn.\n\n#### knitting note\n\n  The main part is worked in one piece from the tail to the head.\n\n  The chameleon is worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the techniques i-cord and working in the round.\n\n  If you are knitting for a very young child, embroider the eyes with thread instead of using toy eyes. Even safety eyes can be a choking hazard.\n\n  You can knit any yarn with needles one size smaller than the size recommended on the ball band to give a tight fabric that doesn't allow the stuffing to show through.\n\n### CHAMELEON PATTERN\n\nTAIL, LEGS, BODY AND HEAD  \nCast on 4 sts using **MC** and size 2 (2.5mm) needles.  \nWork as i-cord, until the tail measures 3in (8cm). Slide sts to other end of needle without turning. Keeping gauge tight, pull working yarn across the back of i-cord. (Row numbers start from 1 now, although the tail is already started.)  \n **Row 1** K2, M1, M2. 5 sts.  \nWork as i-cord for a further 3 rows. Don't turn.  \n **Shape tail**  \n **Row 5** K2, M1, k1, M1, k2. 7 sts.  \n **Row 6** K7.  \n **Row 7** Kfb, k2, M1, k1, M1, k2, kfb. 11 sts.  \n **Row 8** K11.  \n **Row 9** [Kfb, K4] twice, kfb, turn. 14 sts.  \n **Row 10** (WS) P.  \n **Row 11** Divide sts: K4 sts on n1, 6 sts on n2, 4 sts on n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 12** Kfb, k6, M1, k6, kfb. 17 sts.  \n **Rnd 13** K.  \n **Rnd 14** [Kfb, k7] twice, kfb. 20 sts.  \n **Divide for back legs**  \n **Rnd 15** [K1, M1] twice, sl next 5 sts onto a safety pin, [kfb] 6 times, sl next 5 sts onto a safety pin, [M1, k1] twice. 20 sts. (Keep gauge tight as you knit under the sts held on safety pins.)  \n **Rnd 16** K.  \n **Shape back**  \n **Rnd 17** Kfb, k9, M1, k9, kfb. 23 sts.  \n **Rnd 18** K.  \n **Rnd 19** K11, picot 1, k11.  \n **Rnd 20** K.  \n **Rnd 21** K11, M1, k1, M1, k11. 25 sts.  \n **Rnd 22** K.  \n **Rnd 23** K12, picot 2, k12.  \n **Rnd 24** K.  \n **Rnd 25** K12, M1, k1, M1, k12. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 26** K.  \n **Rnd 27** K13, picot 2, k13.  \n **Rnd 28** K.  \n **Rnd 29** K13, M1, k1, M1, k13. 29 sts.  \n **Rnd 30** K.  \n **Rnd 31** K14, picot 2, k14.  \n **Rnd 32** K.  \n **Rnd 33** K13, k3tog, k13. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 34** K.  \n **Rnd 35** K13, picot 2, k13.  \n **Rnd 36** K.  \n **Rnd 37** K12, k3tog, k12. 25 sts.  \n **Rnd 38** K12, picot 2, k12.  \n **Rnd 39** K11, k3tog, k11. 23 sts.  \n **Rnd 40** K11, picot 2, k11.  \n **Rnd 41** K10, k3tog, k10. 21 sts.  \n **Rnd 42** K10, picot 2, k10.  \n **Rnd 43** K2, kfb twice, k13, kfb twice, k2. 25 sts.  \n **Divide for front legs**  \n **Rnd 44** Kfb twice, k2, sl next 3 sts onto a safety pin, k5, M1, k1, M1, k5, sl next 3 sts onto a safety pin, k2, kfb twice. 23 sts.  \n(Keep gauge tight as you knit under the sts held on safety pins.)  \n **Rnd 45** K.  \n **Rnd 46** K.  \nStuff the body lightly.  \n **Shape head**  \n **Rnd 47** K10, [M1, k1] 4 times, k19. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 48** K13, kfb, k13. 28 sts.  \n **Rnd 49** K7, skpo, k10, k2tog, k7. 26 sts.  \n **Rnd 50** K8, skpo, k6, k2tog, k8. 24 sts.  \n **Rnd 51** K9, skpo, k2, k2tog, k9. 22 sts.  \n **Rnd 52** K10, k2tog, k10. 21 sts.  \n **Rnd 53** K9, k3tog, k9. 19 sts.  \n **Rnd 54** K.  \n **Rnd 55** Skpo, k6, k3tog, k6, k2tog. 15 sts.  \n **Rnd 56** Skpo, k4, k3tog, k4, k2tog. 13 sts.  \n **Rnd 57** K5, k3tog, k5. 10 sts.  \nBind off.  \nStuff the head.  \nMattress stitch the bind-off edge closed.  \n **Back legs (make 2)**  \nWith RS facing, sl one set of 5 sts off the safety pin and onto size 0 (2mm) needle. Rejoin **MC**.  \nWork as i-cord until the leg measures 1\u00bdin (4cm).  \nNext row K2, skpo, k1. 4 sts.  \n **Divide for toes**  \nK2, then using n3, work i-cord on these 2 sts for 3 rows.  \nBind off.  \nRejoin yarn to rem 2 sts and work to match the first toe.  \n **Front legs (make 2)**  \nWith RS facing, sl one set of 3 sts off the safety pin onto size 0 (2mm) needles. Rejoin **MC**.  \nWork as i-cord until the leg measures 1\u00bdin (4cm).  \nNext row K1, skpo. 2 sts.  \n **Divide for toes**  \nKfb in next st, then using 3rd needle, work i-cord on these 2 sts for 2 rows.  \nBind off.  \nRejoin yarn to rem 1 st and work to match the first toe.\n\nEYES (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 4 sts using **MC** and size 0 (2mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) *Kfb, rep from * to end. 8 sts.  \n **Row 2** (WS) P.  \n **Rows 3\u20135** st st.  \n **Row 6** (WS) *P2 tog, rep from * to end. 4 sts.  \nCut yarn and thread end through rem sts. Pull up tight and secure.  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap one toy eye into the centre of the work with wrong side facing or alternately embroider the eye using black yarn.  \nRun gathering stitch around the edges of the knitting. Pull up the stitches to gather, enclosing the back of the toy eye. Stuff the eye with spare yarn and stitch the opening closed.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nWeave the yarn end into the tail.  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in the centre of the eye pieces. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nWith a couple of stitches, sew the legs to the side of the body to bend the knees slightly.  \nCurl the tips of the feet under a little to give the impression of tiny fists and sew them in place with a couple of stitches.  \nSew up any gaps left under the arms and legs.  \nCurl the end of the tail slightly and stitch in place.\n\n#\n\n## zoom the greyhound\n\n**Working to a tight tension will keep this greyhound in good shape.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nLightweight (DK) yarn\n\n  1 \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in grey ( **MC** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **notions**\n\n  2 \u00d7 \u00bcin- (6mm-) diameter toy safety eyes (or black yarn)\n\n  Black yarn for nose\n\n **gauge**\n\n13 sts and 16 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles\n\n_Don't worry if the gauge is not exact \u2013 it doesn't matter if the dog is a little bigger or smaller than shown._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 8in (20cm) long (not including the tail) \u00d7 5in (13cm) tall\n\nZoom by name, but not necessarily by nature. This small, pocket-sized little greyhound pal won't be chasing rabbits, but he might give the odd spider or beetle a run for its money. Of course, Zoom would win in his 'go-faster' speedy red coat!\n\nZoom's limbs are quite fine, so stuff them with care to give them a good greyhound shape.\n\n### DOG PATTERN\n\n#### knitting notes\n\n  The main part of the dog is worked in one piece from the nose to the tail.\n\n  The dog is worked on double-pointed knitting needles using the techniques i-cord and working in the round.\n\n  Do not use even safety eyes on toys for an infant, as they can be a potential choking hazard. Instead, embroider the eyes in place with thread.\n\n  If you want a tighter fabric, simply knit on needles that are one size smaller than specified.\n\nHEAD, BODY, LEGS AND TAIL  \nCast on 4 sts using **MC** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 6 sts.  \n **Row 3** Pkfb, p to last st, pkfb. 8 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 12 sts.  \nWork 6 rows in st st.  \n **Shape front of head**  \n **Row 12** (RS) K4, kfb 4 times, k4. 16 sts.  \n **Row 13** P.  \n **Shape jaw**  \n **Row 14** (RS) Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 18 sts.  \n **Row 15** P.  \n **Row 16** Divide st: k6 onto n1, k6 onto n2, k6 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 17** K9, M1, k9. 19 sts.  \n **Shape back of head**  \n **Rnd 18** K16, skpo, turn and work the head back and forth as follows:\n\n**Row 19** (WS) Sl 1, p13, p2tog, turn.  \n **Row 20** Sl 1, k11, skpo, turn.  \n **Row 21** Sl 1, p8, p2tog, turn.  \n **Row 22** Sl 1, k4, skpo, turn.  \n **Row 23** Sl 1, p2, p2tog, turn.  \n **Row 24** Sl 1, k8 to beg of rnd.  \nJoin to work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 25** (RS) K13.  \nRep last rnd once more.  \n **Shape neck**  \n **Rnd 27** Kfb, k4, k3tog, k4, kfb.  \n **Rnd 28** K13.  \nRep last 2 rnds once more.  \nDivide sts: 3 sts onto n1, 7 sts onto n2, 3 sts onto n3.  \nRep last 2 rnds once more.  \n **Rnd 31** Kfb twice, k3, k3tog, k3, kfb twice. 15 sts.  \n **Rnd 32** K15.  \n **Rnd 33** Kfb twice, k4, k3tog, k3, kfb twice. 17 sts.  \n **Rnd 34** K17.  \nPlace marker. Work 5 rnds without shaping.  \n **Divide for front**  \n **Rnd 40** K4, sl last 8 sts onto a safety pin. K9, turn.  \nWith WS facing, work back and forth as follows:  \n **Shape front legs**  \nCast on 22 sts at beg of next 2 rows. 53 sts.  \n **Shape feet**  \n **Row 43** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 44** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 45** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 46** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 47** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Row 48** K5, turn.  \n **Row 49** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 50** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 51** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 52** Sl 1, k to end.  \nWork 3 rows in st st.  \n **Work inside front left leg**  \n **Row 56** (RS) K22, turn.  \nWork 3 rows in st st on these 22 sts for the inside left leg.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 60** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 61** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 62** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 63** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 64** Sl 1, k19 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 22 sts.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **MC** to the foot end of the right leg.  \n **Work inside front right leg**  \n **Row 65** (WS) P22, turn.  \n **Row 66** K.  \n **Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 67** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 68** Sl 1, k3, turn.\n\n**Row 69** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 70** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 71** Sl 1, p19 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 22 sts.  \nLeave 9 sts from the back of the dog on the needle and return to the front as follows:  \n **Work front**  \nSl 8 sts at the neck off the safety pin onto size 3 (3mm) needles. With RS facing, rejoin **MC**.  \n **Row 72** K.  \nWork 7 rows in st st.  \n **Join front to back**  \n **Row 80** (RS) K8, K4 from the back onto n2, k5 from the back onto n3. 17 sts.  \nWith RS facing, keep gauge tight across junctions, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Shape tummy**  \n **Rnd 81** (RS) K8, [k2, M1] twice, k1, [M1, k2] twice. 21 sts.  \n **Rnd 82** K21.  \n **Rnd 83** [K2, M1] 6 times, k2, kfb, k2, [M1, k2] twice, M1. 31 sts.  \n **Rnd 84** K31.  \nRep last rnd 6 times more.  \n **Rnd 91** K2tog, k7, k2tog, k20. 29 sts.  \n **Rnd 92** K2tog, k5, k2tog, k20. 27 sts.  \n **Rnd 93** K2, k3tog, k2, k2tog, k2, k2tog, k8, k2tog, k2, k2tog. 21 sts.  \n **Rnd 94** K21.  \n **Rnd 95** K1, k3tog, k17. 19 sts.  \n **Rnd 96** K19.  \n **Rnd 97** K3tog, k17. 17 sts.  \n **Rnd 98** K17.  \nRep last rnd 8 times more.  \n **Divide for back legs**  \n **Rnd 107** K17, sl last 4 sts onto a safety pin.  \n **Rnd 108** Cast on 25 sts, k to end. 38 sts.  \nWork in st st as follows:  \n **Row 109** (WS) Cast on 25 sts, p to end. 63 sts.  \n **Shape feet**  \n **Row 110** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 111** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 112** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 113** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 114** Sl 1, k to end.  \n **Row 115** P5, turn.  \n **Row 116** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 117** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 118** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 119** Sl 1, p to end.  \n **Shape back**  \n **Row 120** (RS) K30, k3tog, k to end. 61 sts.  \n **Row 121** P.  \n **Row 122** K29, k3tog, k to end. 59 sts.  \n **Divide for tail**  \n **Row 123** (WS) P28, sl next 5 sts onto a safety pin, p28 sts under the tail to end. 54 sts. (Keep tension tight to avoid gaps as you purl above the sts on safety pins.)  \n **Work inside back left leg**  \n **Row 124** (RS) K25, turn.  \nWork 3 rows in st st on these 25 sts for the inside left leg.  \n **Shape inside left foot**  \n **Row 128** (RS) K5, turn.  \n **Row 129** Sl 1, p3, turn.  \n **Row 130** Sl 1, k2, turn.  \n **Row 131** Sl 1, p1, turn.  \n **Row 132** Sl 1, k22 to end of inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 25 sts.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **MC** to the foot end of the right leg.  \n **Work inside back right leg**  \n **Row 133** (WS) P25, turn.  \nWork 3 rows in st st on these 25 sts for the inside right leg.  \n **Shape inside right foot**  \n **Row 137** (WS) P5, turn.  \n **Row 138** Sl 1, k3, turn.  \n **Row 139** Sl 1, p2, turn.  \n **Row 140** Sl 1, k1, turn.  \n **Row 141** Sl 1, p22 to the end of the inside leg, turn.  \nBind off 25 sts.  \nSl 4 sts on the safety pin at the tail end onto size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 142** (RS) **MC** K across.  \nWork st st for 5 rows, so ending with a WS row.  \nCut yarn and leave sts on needle.  \n **Join seam under back legs**  \nSl 4 sts from the safety pin at the under body onto size 3 (3mm) needle.  \nWith WS tog, hold needles parallel. Work Kitchener stitch to close the seam. Weave in end.  \n **Shape tail**  \nSl 5 sts off the safety pin at the tail onto size 3 (3mm) needle.  \nWork as i-cord for 7 rows.  \n **Next rnd** K2tog, k1, k2tog. 3 sts.  \nWork as i-cord until the tail measures 4in (10cm).  \nCut yarn and thread end through sts. Pull up tight and secure.\n\nEARS (MAKE 2)  \nCast on 3 sts using **MC** and size 3 (3m) needles.  \n **Row 1** (WS) P.  \n **Row 2** Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 5 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 7 sts.  \n **Row 5** P.  \n **Row 6** K2tog, k to last 2 sts, k2tog. 5 sts.  \nRep last 2 rows once more. 3 sts.  \n **Row 9** P3tog. 1 st.  \nFasten off. Weave in end.\n\n **MAKING UP**  \nHEAD  \nCarefully turn the work to the wrong side. Backstitch the row ends at the side of the head and along the nose. Carefully turn right side out. Use your finger to push out the shaping at the nose.\n\nEYES  \nFollowing the manufacturer's instructions, snap the eyes in place on each side of the nose. Alternatively, embroider the eyes with yarn.  \nStuff the head and neck fairly firmly.\n\nNOSE  \nEmbroider the top of the nose with a few long stitches in black yarn.\n\nEARS  \nJoin the bind-off end of each ear to each side of the head where the shaping decreases.\n\nFRONT LEGS  \nWith WS facing, fold the front leg in half, joining the row ends and matching the foot shaping. Leaving the tops (bind-off edges) of the legs unsewn, mattress stitch the row ends to join the inside leg to the outer leg. Work a running stitch around the bind-off end at the foot, pull it up tight to gather and secure.  \nUsing tweezers, stuff the leg fairly firmly. Shape the leg and foot. Weave in the end. Stuff and shape the other leg and foot to match.  \nJoin the seam around the front leg. Then stuff the body quite firmly.\n\nBACK LEGS  \nSew up, stuff and shape the back legs as for the front legs.  \nJoin the seam around the back legs. Then stuff the back of the body quite firmly. If necessary, backstitch any opening under the tail.  \nTake time to really sculpt your dog to give it a greyhound shape.\n\n#\n\n## greyhound's jacket\n\n**Knit Zoom's jacket so it fits him snugly, with a little stretch to get it on.**\n\n**RATING**\n\n**yarn**\n\nFingering-weight (4-ply) yarn\n\n  \u00bd \u00d7 1\u00beoz (50g) ball in red ( **A** )\n\n **needles**\n\n  4 \u00d7 size 3 (3mm) double-pointed knitting needles\n\n **gauge**\n\n13 sts and 16 rows to 2in (5cm) of st st, using **A** and size 3 (3mm) needles\n\n_This jacket is knitted to fit the greyhound snugly._\n\n **finished size**\n\nApprox. 2\u00bein (7cm) long \u00d7 4in (10cm) wide on bottom edge\n\nSome say greyhounds can only be grey \u2013 but you can make his jacket any colour you want. Embroider a 'go-faster' number on the back to make Zoom feel like a real winner.\n\n### JACKET PATTERN\n\nCast on 25 sts using **A** and size 3 (3mm) needles.  \n **Row 1** (RS) Kfb, k to last st, kfb. 27 sts.  \n **Row 2** Pkfb, p to last st, pkfb. 29 sts.  \nWork 2 rows st st.  \n **Row 5** Divide sts: k10 onto n1, k9 onto n2, k10 onto n3.  \nWith RS facing, keeping gauge fairly tight on first rnd, work in the rnd as follows:  \n **Rnd 6** K29.  \nRep last rnd 5 times more.  \n **Shape armholes**  \n **Rnd 12** K3, bind off next 6 sts, k10, bind off next 6 sts, k2. 17 sts.  \n **Rnd 13** K next 3 sts to give 6 sts on one needle.  \nTurn and work back and forth on these 6 sts for the underside of the jacket.  \n **Row 14** (WS) P.  \nWork 2 rows in st st. Cut yarn and leave sts on needle.  \nWith WS facing, rejoin **A** to 11 sts (slide onto one needle) for the top of the jacket.  \n **Row 17** P, turn.  \nWork 2 rows in st st. Cut yarn and leave sts on needle.  \n **Join upper to underside**  \n **Rnd 20** K11, k2tog from 6 sts at the underside, k2, k2tog, k1 from upper again to join in the rnd. 15 sts.  \n(Keep tension tight across junctions.)  \n **Rnd 21** K15.  \nRep last rnd 3 times more.  \nBind off.  \nWeave in all ends, neatening around the armholes.\n\n#\n\n## Techniques\n\nAll the projects in this book are quick \u2013 some take less than a day \u2013 and easy to knit, once the basic techniques have been mastered. The pets are all, or in part, knitted using four double-pointed knitting needles \u2013 a fairly new approach to toy knitting. This can seem a little daunting to the uninitiated \u2013 I was one of those half a year ago. But sock knitting had been re-invented and I thought I should try to master the technique. Now, for me, it's the only way to knit! The very act of going round and round is pure meditation and fun \u2013 and the knitted creation is 'sculptured' in 3D form as you work, so you can instantly see how your work is progressing.\n\nIf you are new to knitting or need to brush up on your past skills, there are basic techniques over the next few pages from how to cast on, knit and purl, knit in the round and cast off. There is also advice on special design techniques and finishing touches.\n\nMy advice is to have fun choosing your yarn, enjoy the process of knitting and take your time to achieve your perfect pet. Be fussy!\n\n#\n\n## Abbreviations\n\nAll knitting patterns use abbreviations to save time and space. These may seem a bit daunting if you are not familiar with the terms, but you will quickly pick up the language. Below is a list of all the abbreviations used in the patterns for this book.\n\nThe rows and rounds in the patterns in this book are numbered sequentially throughout each pattern piece so that you can easily identify your place.\n\n**approx** approximately\n\n**beg** beginning\n\n**cm(s)** centimetre(s)\n\n**cont** continue\n\n**dec** decrease\n\n**DK** double knitting\n\n**g** gram(s)\n\n**in(s)** inch(es)\n\n**inc** increase\n\n**k** knit\n\n**k2tog** knit the next two stitches together (decrease by one stitch)\n\n**k3tog** knit the next three stitches together (decrease by two stitches)\n\n**kfb** knit into front and back of the same stitch (increase by one stitch)\n\n**MC** main colour\n\n**mm** millimetre(s)\n\n**n** needle (with the needle number: needle 1, needle 2, etc.)\n\n**oz** ounce(s)\n\n**p** purl\n\n**p2tog** purl the next two stitches together (decrease by one stitch)\n\n**p3tog** purl the next three stitches together (decrease by two stitches)\n\n**patt** pattern\n\n**pfkb** purl into front and knit into back of the same stitch (increase one stitch)\n\n**picot** cast on one\/more stitches, then bind off the same number of stitches (the number of stitches is given as picot 2, picot 5, etc.)\n\n**psso** pass the slipped stitch over (decrease by one stitch)\n\n**rem** remaining\n\n**rep** repeat\n\n**rnd** round\n\n**skpo** slip one, knit one, pass the slipped stitch over (decrease by one stitch)\n\n**sl** slip\n\n**sl 1** slip one stitch\n\n**st(s)** stitch(es)\n\n**st st** stockinette stitch (stocking stitch)\n\n**tog** together\n\n**yon** yarn over\/yarn over needle (increase by one stitch in lace pattern)\n\n#\n\n## Basic equipment\n\nOf course, you will need a selection of knitting needles. Most of the patterns use double-ended needles, but some use single-ended ones and circular needles. If you wish to make a collar for Biscuit the Cat, you will require a crochet hook. You will also need a selection of safety pins and stitch holders for holding stitches, and markers to indicate the start of rounds. A large-eyed darning or tapestry needle will be handy for making up your pets. Use a good quality toy stuffing and, if you wish, a pair of tweezers for stuffing the narrower shapes.\n\n## Gauge\n\nOn the band or sleeve of every ball of yarn there is information on the gauge (what European knitters call 'tension') of the yarn. This tells you how many stitches and rows you should aim to achieve over 4in (10cm) square. The gauge will differ depending on the size of the needles you use and the thickness of the yarn. However, we all knit differently. Some people are naturally loose knitters and others knit more tightly. The beauty about toys is that the gauge doesn't really matter in most cases. If your pet is a little bit bigger or smaller than mine, who's to know! Knitting is fun and should be for everyone.\n\n#\n\n## casting on\n\nAll projects start with getting the first stitches onto the knitting needles \u2013 in other words casting them on. There are various methods of casting on, but I find the knitting-on method is simple and versatile. Of course, if you have a favourite method, use that.\n\n**1** Make a slipknot in the working end of your yarn, leaving an end of about 12in (30cm). Place the slipknot on the left-hand needle. Insert the right-hand needle into the loop of the slipknot and wrap the yarn around the tip of the needle, from back to front.\n\n**2** Slide the tip of the right-hand needle down to catch this new loop of yarn.\n\n**3** Place the new loop on the left-hand needle.\n\n**4** Repeat this process until you have cast on as many stitches as the project requires.\n\n#\n\n## The knit stitch\n\nThe most basic stitch in knitting is called, not surprisingly, the knit stitch. It can be used completely on its own, when knitting in the round, to produce stockinette stitch (stocking stitch). When it is used on its own for working back and forth along rows, it produces garter stitch.\n\n**1** The working stitches will be on the left-hand needle. Take the right-hand needle and insert the tip from right to left into the first loop on the left-hand needle.\n\n**2** Wrap the yarn from back to front around the tip of the right-hand needle.\n\n**3** Slide the needle down to catch this new loop of yarn. Slip the loop off the left-hand needle and onto the right-hand needle. This is your first stitch. Repeat the process until all the stitches have been knitted off the left-hand needle onto the right-hand one.\n\n#\n\n## The purl stitch\n\nThe perfect complement to the knit stitch is the purl stitch. The right side of each looks like the reverse side of the other. If purl stitch is used when working back and forth, alternating rows with knit stitch, the combination produces stockinette stitch (stocking stitch).\n\n**1** The working stitches will be on your left-hand needle.\n\n**2** Wrap the yarn counterclockwise around the tip of the right-hand needle.\n\n**3** Use the tip of the right-hand needle to pick up the new loop of yarn. Slide the loop off the left-hand needle and onto the right-hand needle. This is your first stitch. Repeat the process until all the stitches have been knitted off the left-hand needle onto the right-hand one.\n\n#\n\n## Basic stitch patterns\n\nOnly the very basic stitch patterns are used to make the knitted pets in this book. They are mostly knitted in stockinette stitch, with a few details knitted in reverse stockinette stitch and garter stitch.\n\n### STOCKINETTE STITCH\n\nStockinette stitch (also referred to as stocking stitch by Europeans) is the knitted fabric that features most often in this book. It is created by knitting one row and purling the next row when knitting back and forth, or by knitting every row in the round. The knitted side forms the 'right side'; the purl side forms the 'wrong side'.\n\n### REVERSE STOCKINETE STITCH\n\nReverse stockinette stitch is made in the same way as stockinette stitch, but the purl side forms the right side. I have used reverse stockinette stitch to give Tortellini Tortoise's legs a more wrinkled-looking texture.\n\n### GARTER STITCH\n\nGarter stitch is made by knitting every row when knitting back and forth. This creates quite a dense fabric that looks the same on both sides. The Haughty Hens' tail feathers are knitted in garter stitch to help them stand up.\n\n#\n\n## Binding off\n\nBefore you can make up your pets, you will need to bind off your knitting so that the stitches don't work loose. Below are instructions for the standard binding-off of one edge. On some pets, you will need to bind off (graft) two edges together, for which you can use Kitchener stitch (grafting).\n\n### STANDARD BIND OFF\n\n**1** Work the first stitch on the left-hand needle as if making a regular knit stitch. Then knit the second stitch. Insert the left-hand needle into the first stitch on the right-hand needle.\n\n**2** Pass this stitch over the second loop on the right-hand needle and drop it off the needle. This makes the first bound-off stitch. To continue, knit the next stitch. Use your left-hand needle to pass the new first stitch over the second stitch and drop it off the needle. Carry on until all the stitches in the row have been bound off.\n\n### KITCHENER STITCH\n\n**1** Cut the working yarn, leaving a long end, and thread it into a darning needle. Hold the double-pointed needles, each with the same number of stitches, parallel in your left hand. Insert the darning needle purl-wise into the first stitch on the closest knitting needle. Pull the yarn through, leaving the stitch on the knitting needle.\n\n**2** Insert the darning needle knit-wise into the first stitch on the back knitting needle. Pull the yarn through, leaving that stitch on the knitting.\n\n**3** Insert the daring needle into the same front stitch as before, this time knit-wise, and slip that stitch off the knitting needle onto the working yarn.\n\n**4** Insert the darning needle purl-wise through the next front stitch, leaving it on the knitting needle. Then pass the darning needle purl-wise through the same stitch as before on the back knitting needle, slipping it off the needle and onto the working yarn. Insert the darning needle knit-wise through the next back stitch, leaving it on the knitting needle. Repeat steps 3 and 4 until there are no stitches left on the needles.\n\n#\n\n## Colourwork\n\nOne of the main ways to knit designs using two or more colours \u2013 intarsia \u2013 is used to give the short-haired guinea pig (is that Itty or Bitty?) the pale patch on his forehead. Many of the other pets, such as Silkysoft Snake, Tortellini Tortoise and Biscuit the Cat, cleverly use variegated yarn to find their colourful selves.\n\n### INTARSIA\n\nIntarsia knitting is used for designs where there are blocks of colour. You will need a separate ball of yarn for each colour, and you will often have to change colours in the middle of a row.\n\nKnit along the row until the new colour is needed. Drop the first colour and pick up the second colour underneath the first one, crossing the two yarns over before knitting the next stitch in the second colour. The crossing of the stitches ensures that no holes are created between colours.\n\n#\n\n## Shaping\n\nThe pets in this book have been created by shaping the knitting (increasing and decreasing stitches), as well as by knitting in the round and with the i-cord technique. This means you can see your pets developing their 3D shape as you knit and there is much less sewing up to do after you finish knitting. The different shaping techniques you will need are explained below.\n\n### DECREASING STITCHES\n\nDecreasing stitches is where you lose stitches, in these patterns usually one at a time. This can be achieved in several ways.\n\nSKPO (SLIP ONE, KNIT ONE, PASS THE SLIPPED STITCH OVER)\n\n**1** Knit along the row until you reach the area you want to decrease. Slip the stitch (unknitted) onto the right-hand needle. Knit the next stitch.\n\n**2** Lift the slipped stitch over the knitted stitch and off the needle. This decreases by one stitch.\n\nK2TOG (KNIT TWO STITCHES TOGETHER)\n\nKnit along the row until you reach the area you want to decrease. Knit through the next two stitches as though they were one stitch. This decreases by one stitch.\n\nP2TOG (PURl TWO STITCHES TOGETHER)\n\nPurl along the row until you reach the area you want to decrease. Purl through the next two stitches as though they were one stitch. This decreases by one stitch.\n\nMULTIPLE DECREASES\n\nYou can also decrease by more than one stitch at a time. Some of the pattern instructions ask you to k3tog or p3tog, for example. Work these decreases as explained above; you will just need to insert your working needle through three stitches and knit or purl them together as though they were one stitch. K3tog and p3tog decrease by two stitches.\n\n### INCREASING STITCHES\n\nIncreasing stitches is where you make a stitch.\n\nKFB (KNIT INTO THE FRONT AND BACK)\n\nKnit along the row until you reach the area you want to increase. Knit into the front of the next stitch on the left-hand needle. Instead of removing it from the needle, knit into it again through the back loop. Then slip the original stitch off the left-hand needle.\n\nPFKB (PURL INTO THE FRONT, KNIT INTO THE BACK)\n\nPurl along the row until you reach the area you want to increase. Purl into the front of the next stitch on the left-hand needle. Instead of slipping it off the needle, take the working yarn to the back of the work and knit into the stitch through the back loop. Slip the original stitch off the left-hand needle.\n\nYON (YARN OVER\/YARN OVER NEEDLE)\n\nWrapping the yarn over the needle makes an additional stitch and a hole in knitted lace and textured patterns. I have used this technique to create tiny holes in the Haughty Hens' feathers and to shape Reggie Veggie's triangular plates.\n\nBring the yarn over between the two needles. Knit the next stitch, taking the yarn over the right needle.\n\n#\n\n## Knitting in the round\n\nMost of the pets in this book have parts that are knitted in the round on double-pointed needles. Some of the pets use the i-cord technique, which also produces tubular pieces \u2013 this time like a thin knitted string \u2013 for the legs and tails. Knitting in this way is great because it saves you having to sew up fiddly seams later.\n\nThe rounds are numbered straight on from any preceding row or round, although sometimes you need to knit part of a round to get to the correct place to start knitting the next part of your pet. Often you will want to place a marker to show the beginning of the round.\n\n### KNITING I-CORD\n\nUsing two double-pointed needles, cast on the number of stitches you need and knit across them. Instead of turning your knitting, slide the stitches to the opposite end of the needle with the knit side facing you. Take the working yarn, from the left-hand edge, across the back of the work and knit across the stitches. Slide the stitches to the opposite end of the needle as before and knit across the stitches, drawing the knitting into a tube. Pull the yarn quite tightly when knitting the first stitch.\n\n### KNITTING ON DOUBLE-POINTED NEEDLES\n\nDouble-pointed needles are shorter than standard needles and easier to handle than a circular needle when you have only a few stitches to work in the round on.\n\n**1** Cast on as you would normally and distribute the stitches equally over three double-pointed needles.\n\n**2** Continue knitting round, transferring the stitches so that you have an equal number of stitches on each needle.\n\n#\n\n## Making up\n\nThere are various ways of sewing up knitting, so use whichever you like or suits the occasion best. Always use the same yarn you knitted with so the stitches are less visible. Often you will be able to use the long end you left when you cast on. It's best to use a darning or tapestry needle with a large eye and blunt end so that you don't split the yarn.\n\n### WEAVING IN ENDS\n\nYou will have some loose yarn ends from casting on and binding off, so weave these in first. One of the best ways to weave in the loose ends so they will be invisible is to thread the yarn end through a darning needle and sew it into the seam by passing the needle through the 'bumps' of the stitches on the wrong side of the work. Sew them in for about 1\u20132in (2.5\u20135cm) and then snip off any excess yarn.\n\n### BACKSTITCH (REVERSE SIDES OUT)\n\nPut both knit sides (right sides) together so the wrong sides are facing you. Carefully make small stitches along the edge, taking the needle down for each stitch behind the end of the previous stitch. Make sure you are sewing in a straight line as close to the edge as possible. It might sound obvious, but it is very easy to pick up stitches that are further away from the edge than you think. You want the sewing to be as invisible as possible.\n\n### MATTRESS STITCH (KNIT SIDES OUT)\n\nPut the two pieces of knitting next to each other, knit sides up and seams matching. Run the yarn through the centre of the first stitch on one piece of knitting, then down through the centre of the first stitch on the other piece of knitting. Next go through the second stitch on the first piece of knitting and down through the centre of the second stitch on the other piece. Continue in this way along the row, pulling up the stitches fairly tightly.\n\n### STUFFING YOUR PETS\n\nToy stuffing is an essential component for your knitted pets. You will be able to find a suitable brand at haberdashery and craft stores. Use stuffing that is specifically designed for toys so you can be sure it is safe for children. Check the safety logo before you buy it.\n\nDon't stuff toys too fully or they will become solid and have no movement. You want your pets to be cuddly. You will probably find that your fingers are all you need to push stuffing into small or fiddly pieces, but you might also find tweezers useful.\n\n### SEWING IN FINAL ENDS\n\nOnce you have stuffed the toy, you will need to close the small opening in the middle of the seam. I knot together the two ends of the yarn used for sewing the seams, then thread the ends through the toy so that the knot is hidden and the ends are kept long. You don't want to cut the ends too short to avoid the knot coming undone.\n\n### STANDING YOUR PETS UP\n\nI have designed these pets to look as much like the bird or animal they represent as I can, but yarn being yarn it can have its own mind about whether it wants to stand up or which way it wants to lie. So, if you feel it necessary, a little gentle persuasion may be needed.\n\nTo make Biscuit's ears extra perky, tame a pony's mane or give the little birds' legs standing power, for example, try a 50:50 solution of sugar (or PVA adhesive) and water. Make the solution with hot water to dissolve the sugar and then leave it to cool. Dab or paint the solution onto the knitted part you want to stiffen and then leave it to dry in the desired position.\n\nTo make sure a knitted pet will stand easily every time, insert a drinking straw into each leg before you sew it up. Stuff gently around the straw and particularly at the ends to stop it from poking through the knitting.\n\n#\n\n## Finishing touches\n\nThe smallest details can really bring your pets to life and give them their very own character. A small scrap of fabric will add colour and pattern, and simple embroidered features will create a most endearing face. All animals have different markings, like the white rabbit, so add your own finishing touches to create a bespoke pet. You can also give your pets accessories like Biscuit's crocheted collar.\n\n### EMBROIDERING DETAILS\n\nSpend time making the facial features perfect and full of character. You can use any sewing stitches to create these features, although simple straight stitches are as effective as any. You can adapt them to make eyelashes for a pony, a mouth for a puppy, a nose for a kitten or eyes for any of the pets. You could use French knots to make the eyes on the smaller toys or claws for a tortoise. Choose what works best for you. Just remember, you need the stitches to look neat and be as firm as possible so that they don't undo.\n\n#### STRAIGHT STITCH\n\nThis is the simplest of stitches. Thread a darning needle with the new colour of yarn and insert it from the back of the work to the front where you want the stitch to start. Take the yarn over at least a couple of knitted stitches and insert it back through the knitting where you want the stitch to end. Work as many stitches as you wish and then secure the ends at the back of the work. You can adapt these stitches endlessly, for example sewing them close together, on top of each other or splayed apart.\n\n#### FRENCH KNOT\n\nBring the needle from the back to the front of the work and wind the yarn twice round the needle. Pull the needle through the twists, bringing the yarn through too. This creates the knot. You can twist the yarn round the needle more times if you want a bigger knot and once only for a smaller knot.\n\n#### SWISS DARNING\n\nThis is a simple way of adding small areas of contrasting colour and forms duplicate stitches over the knitted stitches. Thread a darning needle with yarn and bring it up from the back of the work to the front through the middle of a knitted stitch where you want the contrast patch to be. Weave the contrasting thread to duplicate and cover the knitted stitch. Repeat, to cover as many knitted stitches as you wish. Secure the ends of yarn at the back of the contrasting patch.\n\n### APPLIQU\u00c9\n\nThe Little Feathered Friends combine knitting with fabric appliqu\u00e9 and give the birds truly unique characters. You can add a touch of nostalgia by using treasured scraps of old fabric to really personalize your work.\n\n#### SEWING APLIQUE ON\n\nThere are several ways you can sew fabric details onto the knitting. I have simply used straight stitches to attach the edges of fabric to the knitting. Try to get your stitching as neat as possible and be creative with the colour of thread you use. The most important thing to ensure is that the fabric is sewn securely to the knitting. Use normal sewing thread rather than yarn.\n\n### CROCHET\n\nCrochet is very handy for making collars, leads and reins for pets. You just need to make a chain, which is easy to do.\n\n#### CROCHETING A CHAIN\n\n**1** Tie a slipknot in the working end of the yarn and place the loop on your crochet hook. Wrap the yarn clockwise over the hook.\n\n**2** Pull the yarn through the loop on the hook to form a new loop. This is the first chain. Repeat the process until the chain is as long as you want it.\n\n#\n\n## Yarns\n\nEach of the project instructions gives a generic description of the yarn that was used. The specific yarns I used are listed below if you want to recreate the project exactly.\n\nYarn companies frequently update their lines and may discontinue certain yarns or colours. If the yarns below are not available, or if you want to use a substitute yarn, you will need to work out the yardage (meterage) needed, as yarns vary. Details will be on the ball band or on good yarn suppliers' websites so that you can make comparisons.\n\n**LITTLE FEATHERED FRIENDS **  \nPINK BIRD  \nClaudia Hand Painted Yarns: \u00bdball in shade  \nStrawberry Latte ( **MC** )  \nRowan Pure Wool 4-ply: oddment in shade 416  \nHessian ( **A** )\n\nYELOW BIRD  \nRowan Pure Wool 4-ply: \u00bdball in shade 032  \nGilt ( **MC** )  \nRYC Classic 4-ply in shade 448 Sweetcorn ( **C** )  \nRowan Pure Wool 4-ply: oddment in shade 417  \nMocha ( **A** )\n\nBLUE BIRD  \nRowan Pure Wool 4-ply: \u00bdball in shade 445  \nChalk ( **MC** )  \nRowan Pure Wool 4-ply: oddment in shade 410  \nIndigo for contrast face (optional)  \nRowan Pure Wool 4-ply: oddment in shade 417  \nMocha ( **A** )\n\n**SILKYSOFT SNAKE **  \nClaudia Hand Painted Yarns: \u00bdball in shade Eat  \nYour Veggies ( **MC** )\n\n**HAUGHTY HEN TRIO **  \nWHITE HEN  \nRowan Organic Wool DK: \u00bdball in shade 600  \nNatural ( **MC** )  \nSirdar Escape DK: oddment in shade 182 Grey,  \nBlack and White ( **A** )  \nDebbie Bliss Rialto 4-ply: oddment in shade 22009  \nRed ( **B** )  \nRowan Pure Wool 4-ply: oddment in shade 433  \nHoney ( **C** )\n\nBLACK\/WHITE\/GREY HEN  \nSirdar Escape DK: \u00bdball in shade 182 Grey\/Black\/White ( **MC** )  \n( **B** ) and ( **C** ) as WHITE HEN\n\nBROWN SPECKLED HEN  \nWendy Skye DK: \u00bdball in shade 2802 Hazel ( **MC** )  \n( **B** ) and ( **C** ) as WHITE HEN\n\nEGGS (1 shade per egg)  \nSublime Extra Fine Merino Wool: oddment in  \nshade 445 Salty Grey  \nSublime Baby Cashmere Merino Silk: oddment in  \nshade 120 Lambie  \nSublime Baby Cashmere Merino Silk 4-ply:  \noddment in shade 05 Waterlily\n\n**ITTY BITTY GUINEA PIGS **  \nSHORT-HAIRED GUINEA-PIG  \nRowan Organic Wool DK: \u00bdball in shade 600  \nNatural ( **MC** )  \nRowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds DK: oddment  \nin shade 780 Ecru ( **C** )\n\nLONG-HAIRED GUINEA-PIG  \nStylecraft Eskimo DK: \u00bdball in shade 5067  \nChocolate ( **MC** )  \nRowan Organic Wool DK: oddment in shade 607  \nOnion ( **A** )\n\n**MITTENS & SOCKS **  \nBROWN SPECKLED RABIT  \nStylecraft Kon-Tiki DK: 2 balls in shade 1460  \nCharcoal Marble ( **MC** )  \nRowan Classic Baby Alpaca DK: oddment in shade  \n208 Southdown ( **B** )\n\nWHITE RABIT  \nPatons Pompero: 2 balls in shade 02 ( **MC** )  \nRowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds DK: oddment  \nin shade 785 Mid Brown Jacob ( **A** )\n\n**SPECKLE THE KITTEN **  \nKITTEN  \nRowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds DK: 1 ball in  \nshade 785 Mid Brown Jacob ( **MC** )  \nRowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds DK: oddment  \nin shade 780 Ecru ( **A** )\n\nMOUSE TOY  \nRowan Pure Wool DK: oddment in shade 032  \nGilt ( **MC** )  \nRowan Pure Wool DK: oddment in shade 002  \nShale ( **A** )\n\n**TORTELLINI TORTOISE **  \nClaudia Hand Painted Yarns: \u00bdball in shade  \nDonna's Favorite ( **A** )  \nRYC Baby Alpaca: oddment in shade 210  \nLagoon ( **B** )  \nRowan Organic Wool DK: \u00bdball in shade 606  \nAlder Buckthorn ( **C** )  \nSublime Organic Merino Wool DK: \u00bdball in shade  \n0190 Pod ( **MC** )\n\n**BAMBER THE LABRADOR PUPPY **  \nSublime Baby Cashmere Merino Silk DK: \u00bdball in  \nshade 03 Vanilla ( **MC** )  \nSublime Baby Cashmere Merino Silk DK: oddment  \nin shade 105 Treacle ( **B** )  \nRYC Bamboo Soft: oddment in shade 105  \nBamboo ( **A** )\n\n**RAVENOUS RATS **  \nBROWN RAT  \nRowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds DK: oddment  \nin shade 782 Mid Brown ( **MC** )  \nSublime Baby Cashmere Merino Silk 4-ply:  \noddment in shade 0001 Piglet ( **A** )\n\nMOTLED BROWN RAT  \nRowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds DK: oddment  \nin shade 783 Marl ( **MC** )  \n( **A** ) as BROWN RAT\n\nWHITE RAT  \nRowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds DK: oddment  \nin shade 780 Ecru ( **MC** )  \n( **A** ) as BROWN RAT\n\n**BISCUIT THE CAT **  \nClaudia Hand Painted Yarns: \u00bdball in shade  \nHoney ( **MC** )  \nSirdar Super Nova Super Chunky: \u00bdball in shade  \n889 Cream ( **A** )\n\n**REGGIE VEGGIE **  \nRYC Cotton Jeans: 2 balls in shade 361 Jute ( **MC** )  \nKing Cole Mirage DK: 1 ball in shade 864  \nGreens ( **A** )\n\n**PIP AND POP PONIES **  \nWHITE PONY  \nSublime Organic Merino Wool DK: \u00bdball in shade  \n0112 Chalk ( **MC** )  \nSublime Baby Cashmere Merino Silk 4-ply:  \noddment in shade 0001 Piglet ( **B** )\n\nGREY PONY  \nSublime Organic Merino Wool DK: \u00bdball in shade  \n0113 Twine ( **A)**  \nSublime Organic Merino Wool DK: oddment in  \nshade 0112 Chalk ( **MC** )  \n( **B** ) as WHITE PONY\n\n**CHARLIE THE CHAMELEON **  \nAdriafil Knitcol Trends: 1 ball in shade 051 Green\/Blue\/Purple\/Pink\/Orange ( **MC** )\n\n**ZOOM THE GREYHOUND **  \nSublime Organic Merino Wool DK: 1 ball in shade  \n0115 Pumice ( **MC** )  \nDebbie Bliss Rialto 4-ply: \u00bdball in shade 22009  \nBerry Red ( **A** )\n\n#\n\n## Suppliers\n\nBelow are some contact details for the suppliers of yarns that I used for making the pets.\n\n**ADRIAFIL**\n\nwww.adriafil.com  \n**(USA) Yarnmarket, LLC**  \n12936 Stonecreek Drive, Unit D  \nPickerington, OH 43147  \nTel: +1 888 996 9276  \nwww.yarnmarket.com  \n**(UK) Angel Yarns**  \nAngel House  \n77 North Street  \nPortslade  \nEast Sussex BN41 1DZ  \nTel: +44 (0)871 288 7358  \nwww.angelyarns.com  \n**(AUS) Wool N Things**  \nShop 9, Rowens Arcade  \nPrinces Highway  \nUlladulla NSW 2539  \nTel: (02) 445 2501  \nemail: woolnthings@rowens.com.au  \nwww.rowens.com.au\/woolnthings\n\n**CLAUDIA HAND PAINTED YARN**\n\nwww.claudiaco.com  \n**(USA) Claudia Hand Painted Yarns**  \n40 West Washington Street  \nHarrisonburg, VA 22802  \nTel: +1 540 43 1140  \nwww.claudiaco.com\n\n**DEBIE BLIS**\n\nwww.debbieblissonline.com  \n**(USA) Knitting Fever Inc.**  \n315 Bayview Avenue  \nAmityville, New York  \nNY 11701  \nTel +1 516 546 3600  \nwww.knittingfever.com  \n**(UK) Designer Yarns Ltd**  \nUnits 8\u201310, Newbridge Industrial Estate,  \nPitt Street  \nKeighley BD21 4PQ  \nTel: +44 (0)1535 6642  \nemail: david@designeryarns.uk.com  \nwww.designeryarns.uk.com  \n**(AUS) Prestige Yarns Pty Ltd**  \nPO Box 39  \nBulli NSW 2516  \nTel: +61 02 4285 6669  \nemail: info@prestigeyarns.com  \nwww.prestigeyarns.com\n\n**KING COLE**\n\nwww.kingcole.co.uk  \n**(UK) King Cole Ltd**  \nMerrie Mills, Elliott Street  \nSilsden  \nKeighley BD20 0DE  \nTel: + (0)1535 650230  \nemail: lance.martin@kingcole.co.uk  \nwww.kingcole.co.uk\n\n**PATONS**\n\nwww.coatscrafts.co.uk  \n**(USA\/CAN) Patons**  \n320 Livingstone Avenue South  \nListowel, ON  \nCanada  \nN4W 3H3  \nTel: +1 888 368 8401  \nemail: inquire@patonsyarns.com  \nwww.patonsyarns.com  \n**(UK) Coats Crafts UK**  \nPO Box 22, Lingfield House  \nLingfield Point, McMullen Road  \nDarlington DL1 1YJ  \nTel: +44 (0)1325 394237  \nemail: consumer.ccuk@coats.com  \nwww.coatscrafts.co.uk  \n**(AUS) Patons**  \nPO Box 7276, Melbourne Victoria 3004  \nTel: +61 (0)3 9380 3888  \nemail: enquiries@auspinners.com.au  \nwww.patons.biz\n\n**ROWAN** , including **RYC**\n\nwww.knitrowan.com  \n**(USA) Westminster Fibers Inc**  \n165 Ledge Street, Nashua  \nNew Hampshire 03060  \nTel: +1 603 886 5041\/5043  \nemail: info@westminsterfibers.com  \nwww.westminsterfibers.com  \n**(UK) Rowan**  \nGreen Lane Mill, Holmfirth HD9 2DX  \nTel: +44 (0)1484 681881  \nemail: info@knitrowan.com  \nwww.knitrowan.com  \n**(AUS) Australian Country Spinners Pty Ltd**  \nLevel 7, 409 St Kilda Road  \nMelbourne, Victoria 3004  \nTel: +61 (0)3 9380 3888  \nemail: tkohut@auspinners.com.au  \nwww.auspinners.com.au\n\n**SIRDAR** , including **SUBLIME**\n\nwww.sirdar.co.uk  \n**(USA) Knitting Fever Inc**.  \n315 Bayview Avenue  \nAmityville, NY 11701  \nTel: +1 516 546 3600  \nwww.knittingfever.com  \n**(UK) Sirdar Spinning Ltd**  \nFlanshaw Lane, Alvethorpe  \nWakefield WF2 9ND  \nTel: +44 (0)1924 371501  \nemail: enquiries@sirdar.co.uk  \nwww.sirdar.co.uk  \n**(AU) Creative Images Crafts**  \nPO Box 106  \nHastings, Victoria 3915  \nTel: (03) 5979 1555  \nemail: creative@peninsula.starway.net.au\n\n**STYLECRAFT**\n\nwww.stylecraft-yarns.co.uk  \n**(UK) Stylecraft**  \nPO Box 62, Goulbourne Street  \nKeighley BD21 1PP  \nTel: +44 (0)1535 609798  \nemail: info@stylecraftltd.co.uk  \nwww.stylecraft-yarns.co.uk\n\n**WENDY**\n\n**(UK) KnitAndSew**  \nKnitandsew  \n21\/22 Park Street  \nSwansea SA1 3DJ  \nTel: +44 (0)845 0940835  \nemail: sales@knitandsew.co.uk\n\n#\n\n## LOVED THIS BOOK?\n\nTell us what you think and you could win another fantastic book from David & Charles in our monthly prize draw. **www.lovethisbook.co.uk**\n\n**Knitted Toy Tales**\n\nLaura Long\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-7153-3172-9\n\nFrom bunnies and bears to Russian dolls and robots, discover a unique range of 20 adorable knitted characters. Clear instructions and the sweetest photography make this charming book the perfect gift for all ages.\n\n**The Knitter's Bible: Accesories**\n\nClaire Crompton\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-7153-3313-6\n\nA comprehensive collection of over 30 stylish knitted accessories for all seasons, from gloves and scarfs, to hats and ponchos, with easy-to-follow techniques and stunning photography.\n\n**Knits to Fit& Flatter**\n\nJane Ellison\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-7153-3146-0\n\nA must-have collection of 16 stylish knitwear designs to highlight, disguise or balance your figure. From cardigans and sweaters to camisoles and wraps these specially designed projects are perfect for beginners and experts alike.\n\n**Two Balls or Less**\n\nJenny Hill\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-7153-2431-8\n\nDiscover how a little yarn can go a long, long way with 20 knitting and crochet projects, each requiring only two balls or less to complete. Featuring new generation yarns, from funky fleece and fur to ribbon twists and boucle.\n\nAll details are correct at time of printing\n\n#\n\n## Index\n\nabbreviations ref1  \nappliqu\u00e9 ref1\n\nbackstitch (reverse sides out) ref1  \nbaskets, cat ref1, ref2  \nbinding off ref1  \nbirds  \nEgg-stra Good Layers ref1  \nHaughty Hen Trio ref1, ref2, ref3  \nLittle Feathered Friends ref1, ref2,  \nref3\n\ncasting on ref1  \ncats  \nbaskets ref1, ref2  \nBiscuit the Cat ref1, ref2, ref3, ref4,  \nref5, ref6  \ncollars ref1  \nSpeckle the Kitten ref1, ref2, ref3  \nChameleons, Charlie the ref1, ref2, ref3  \nchickens  \nEgg-stra Good Layers ref1  \nHaughty Hen Trio ref1, ref2, ref3  \ncollars, cat ref1  \ncolourwork ref1  \ncrochet ref1, ref2\n\ndecreasing stitches ref1  \ndinosaurs, Reggie Veggie the  \nStegosaurus ref1, ref2, ref3  \ndogs  \nBamber the Labrador Puppy ref1,  \nref2, ref3  \ncoats\/jackets for ref1  \ndog leads ref1  \nZoom the Greyhound ref1, ref2  \ndouble-pointed knitting ref1, ref2, ref3\n\neggs, chicken ref1, ref2  \nembroidery ref1  \nends  \nsewing in final ref1  \nweaving in ref1  \nequipment ref1\n\nfinishing touches ref1  \nFrench knot ref1\n\ngarter stitch ref1, ref2  \ngauge ref1  \nGuinea Pigs, Itty Bitty ref1, ref2, ref3\n\ni-cord technique ref1, ref2  \nincreasing stitches ref1  \nintarsia ref1\n\nK2TOG (knit two stitches together) ref1  \nKFB (knit into the front and back) ref1  \nKitchener stitch ref1, ref2, ref3  \nKittens, Speckle the ref1, ref2, ref3  \nknit stitches ref1  \nknitting in the round ref1, ref2\n\nleads, dog ref1\n\nmaking up ref1  \nmattress stitch (knit sides out) ref1  \nmice, Toy Mouse ref1, ref2  \nmultiple decreases ref1\n\nP2TOG (purl two stitches together) ref1  \nPFKB (purl into the front, knit into the  \nback) ref1  \nPonies, Pip and Pop ref1, ref2, ref3, ref4  \npurl stitch ref1\n\nRabbits, Lop-eared ref1, ref2, ref3  \nRats, Ravenous ref1, ref2  \nreverse stockinette stitch ref1\n\nshaping ref1  \nSKPO (slip one, knit one, pass the  \nslipped stitch over) ref1  \nSnakes, Silkysoft ref1, ref2, ref3  \nstanding toys up ref1  \nStegosaurus, Reggie Veggie the ref1,  \nref2, ref3  \nstockinette stitch ref1, ref2, ref3, ref4  \nstraight stitch ref1  \nstuffing ref1  \nSwiss darning ref1\n\ntechniques ref1  \nTortoises, Tortellini ref1, ref2, ref3, ref4\n\nweaving in ends ref1\n\nyarns ref1  \ngauge ref1  \nyon (yarn over\/yarn over needle) ref1\n\n#\n\n## About the author\n\n**Claire Garland** 's early memories of deliberating over her favourite toy-making book as a seven-year old, before cutting and sticking wondrous creations and designing clothes for her teenage dolls, live on in the toys she designs today.\n\nThe grown-up Claire studied art and design in Cardiff, Wales, and a year after finishing her studies started designing needlepoint kits for the internationally renowned company Primavera.\n\nFor her own young children, Claire first tried her hand at embroidering bed linen before rekindling her interest in knitting. The knitted dolls she designed, with their characterful looks and fashionable clothes, captured the imagination of many so much that their own special blogger website was created.\n\nToday Claire lives with her husband and three children (and no real, only knitted, pets) in a pretty cottage in Cornwall where she writes and illustrates her books on sewing, knitting and crochet, makes toys and runs her online mail order company www.dotpebbles.com for her own brand knitted doll kits.\n\n#\n\n## Acknowledgments\n\nSpecial thank yous to Jenny and the team at David & Charles for the sandwiches and cakes, and for supporting this project. Special thanks also to Karen for her time and patience. And finally an appreciative thanks to Lorna Yabsley for her superb wow-factor photography \u2013 these little guys really have come alive!\n\n#\n\n##\n\n**Dedicated to my children  \nand all their (knitted) pets**\n\nA DAVID & CHARLES BOOK  \nCopyright \u00a9 David & Charles Limited 2010, 2010\n\nDavid & Charles is an F+W Media Inc. company  \n4700 East Galbraith Road, Cincinnati, OH 45236\n\nFirst published in the UK and US in 2010  \nThis digital edition published in 2010\n\nText and designs copyright \u00a9 Claire Garland 2010, 2010\n\nClaire Garland has asserted her right to be identified as author of this work  \nin accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a  \nretrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic  \nor mechanical, by photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior  \npermission in writing from the publisher.\n\nThe designs in this book are copyright and must not be stitched for resale.\n\nThe author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that all the instructions in  \nthe book are accurate and safe, and therefore cannot accept liability for any resulting  \ninjury, damage or loss to persons or property, however it may arise.\n\nNames of manufacturers, fabric ranges and other products are provided for the  \ninformation of readers, with no intention to infringe copyright or trademarks.\n\nA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.\n\nISBN-13: 978-1-4463-5081-2 epub  \nISBN-10: 1-4463-5081-9 epub\n\nISBN-13: 978-1-4463-5080-5 pdf  \nISBN-10: 1-4463-5080-0 pdf\n\nPublisher Alison Myer  \nAcquisitions Editor Jennifer Fox-Proverbs  \nEditor James Brooks  \nProject Editor Karen Hemingway  \nSenior Designer Jodie Lystor  \nPhotographers Jack Kirby and Lorna Yabsley  \nProduction Controller Kelly Smith\n\nDavid & Charles publish high quality books on a wide range of subjects.  \nFor more great book ideas visit:  \nwww.rucraft.co.uk\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nGERMAINE\n\nElizabeth Kleinhenz was born in Melbourne, and was until her recent retirement a senior research fellow at the Australian Council for Educational Research. She is also the author of A Brimming Cup: the Life of Kathleen Fitzpatrick.\n\nScribe Publications  \n2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom  \n3754 Pleasant Ave, Suite 100, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55409, USA  \n18\u201320 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia\n\nPublished by Scribe 2018\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Elizabeth Kleinhenz 2018\n\nAll rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.\n\nThe moral right of the author has been asserted.\n\nEvery effort has been made to acknowledge and contact the copyright holders for permission to reproduce material contained in this book. Any copyright holders who have been inadvertently omitted from the acknowledgements and credits should contact the publisher so that omissions may be rectified in subsequent editions.\n\n9781911617914 (UK edition)  \n9781947534780 (US edition)   \n9781925693560 (e-book)\n\nCiP records for this title are available from the British Library.\n\nscribepublications.co.uk  \nscribepublications.com\nFor Emily, Isobel, Jake, Ava and Dan\nContents\n\nIntroduction\n\n1 Who does she think she is?\n\n2 A difficult girl\n\n3 Changing skies\n\n4 The Female Eunuch\n\n5 The commercialisation of Germaine Greer\n\n6 Wind of Tizoula\n\n7 Recalibration\n\n8 The Change\n\n9 Coming home\n\n10 Full circle\n\nAcknowledgements\n\nNotes\nIntroduction\n\n'Brave woman!'\n\nHow often have I heard those words spoken by people who have discovered that I am writing a biography of Germaine Greer. They are speaking not of her, but of me.\n\nI am not especially brave, but nor am I afraid of Germaine Greer. Well, maybe just a little bit. In 2015, when I embarked on the project, my knowledge of her personal life was sketchy. I did not know how opposed she was to the idea of anyone writing a biography of her. She had sold her archive to the University of Melbourne by that time, and it seemed reasonable \u2013 even obvious \u2013 to me that the archive should be used as a biographical source. I had read and enjoyed Christine Wallace's 1997 biography Untamed Shrew, but it was not until I was well advanced into my research that I discovered the full extent of Greer's opposition to that book, and was shocked by her venomous attacks on its author. By then I had found a publisher and it was too late to go back. Not that I would have anyway, for Germaine's life was proving much too interesting.\n\nBefore I started work on the biography I wrote politely to Greer, telling her that I was planning to study her archive and asking her if she had any preferences as to how it might be explored by researchers such as myself. I addressed her as 'Dr Greer'. She responded coldly \u2013 rudely, actually \u2013 that it was not up to her but to the university, who now owned the archive, to decide how it should be used. She would not interfere, she wrote, but nor would she assist me in any way. Finally, she admonished me for failing to get her title right. She was 'Professor', not 'Dr'.\n\nIn February 2018, she wrote to me again, addressing me as 'Mrs Kleinhenz', knowing full well that my title is 'Dr'. 'Oh Germaine,' I sighed.\n\nI first heard the name 'Germaine' in 1959, when I was a student at the Toorak Teachers' College in Melbourne. I had become friends with a group of girls who had been at school with Germaine Greer at the Star of the Sea convent in nearby Gardenvale. They, like me, were two or three years younger than she was and they spoke of her often with a kind of reverence that annoyed me. It was: 'Germaine would have something to say about this' or 'Germaine would never agree with that', or simply, with eyes raised adoringly to the heavens, 'Oh Germaine!' We were all still into our religion at that time, and some of those 'Star' girls had concerns about this Germaine person's soul. 'She could be such a force for good', 'Oh, I'm sure she would never give up her faith . . .' So the conversations went. I was bored and began to conceive a mild dislike for this distant, unknown figure. Why should she be any different from the rest of us?\n\nIt would be another ten years before I found out just how different she was. I had gone on from teachers' college to Melbourne University, started on a career as an English teacher at Melbourne's top government girls' secondary school, got married, had a baby, stopped work, was living in a raw new house in a raw new suburb and was getting used to being called 'Missus' or 'Mum' by the men who delivered the bread and groceries, or tried to sell me a vacuum cleaner. All should have been well \u2013 I was doing exactly what I was expected to do \u2013 but something, something major, was wrong. In 1971 I read The Female Eunuch and I began to understand. Urged on by my mother, who turned out to be an unlikely feminist of the first wave, I went back to work and bought a car. 'I think you've become a women's libber,' my brother-in-law accused. 'And you,' I replied tartly, igniting a family feud that did not heal for years, 'are a male chauvinist pig.'\n\nWho was this Germaine Greer, who changed my life and the lives of millions across the world in the middle years of thetwentieth century?1 She was born on a hot Melbourne day, 29 January 1939, as some of the bushfires of Black Friday on 13 January \u2013 the worst in Victoria's history \u2013 were still burning around the city. Her mother, Peg, was a housewife; her father, Reg, sold advertising space in a newspaper. Her parents' marriage was not happy and the situation in the Greer household worsened after Reg came back from the Second World War. Over the years, the family's economic situation improved somewhat, two more children were born and the Greers moved into larger houses, but there were few books and little conversation. Ultimately, the levels of dullness and cultural deprivation, together with a jumble of unresolved family tensions, drove Germaine to furious rebellion.\n\nSchool was her great escape. An obviously gifted pupil, she won a series of scholarships that allowed her to receive the best education a financially strapped Catholic education system could provide. At Star of the Sea, the convent of the Presentation Order of nuns where she completed the final four years of her education, she shone as the brightest pupil, soaking up knowledge, and was popular with the nuns and the other girls. She stopped believing in the nuns' God, but she never lost the sense of spirituality they had instilled in her.\n\nHer contemporaries' memories of the tall figure of Germaine Greer striding around the campuses of her two Australian universities have become the stuff of legend. At the University of Melbourne, she completed an honours degree in English and French, and at the University of Sydney she wrote her master's thesis on Byron. She excelled in university theatre productions and gravitated to bohemian circles, namely the Drift in Melbourne and the Push in Sydney. The influence of the libertarian, anarchist philosophies and principles so fiercely argued by her Push friends and her lover of that time, Roelof Smilde, never left her.\n\nFrom Sydney she won a Commonwealth Scholarship to Cambridge, where she wrote her doctoral thesis on love and marriage in Shakespeare's comedies. Once again she was a star in university theatre, becoming one of the first women to be elected to the elite Footlights dramatic club. She worked furiously on her thesis, aiming to gain a post at an English university. This turned out to be Warwick, one of the newer universities that were starting to appear in England at that period, where she was appointed as an assistant lecturer in 1967.\n\nNo family or friends were present to support her when she proceeded to the dais of the ancient Cambridge Senate House to receive her PhD from the Vice-Chancellor in March 1968. She was also alone, in a different sense, in her three-week marriage to Paul du Feu, scholar turned labourer, which took place in May of the same year. She did not marry again and she has never sustained any long-term partnerships. She has many good friends but true intimacy has eluded her. 'I am unusually insecure in relationships,' she told psychologist and television presenter Anthony Clare in 1989. 'I'm a bolter, when things get difficult, I bolt . . .'2\n\nFor the first few years after she left Cambridge, Germaine Greer had three identities. Mostly, she was Dr Greer, brilliant teacher and serious scholar at the University of Warwick, but each week, she travelled to the Granada studios in Manchester to perform in the national TV comedy Nice Time. At weekends, she caught up with friends in the emerging London underground, rock music and hippie scenes, to become a self-proclaimed, flamboyantly attired groupie. She wrote provocative articles for the London Oz magazine and was a founding editor of the Amsterdam-based pornographic publication Suck.\n\nHer life, and the lives of millions of women across the world, changed in 1970 with the publication of her first book, The Female Eunuch. This book's central argument \u2013 that 'castrated' women should look to their own minds and bodies to recover and assert their female power before trying to change the world around them \u2013 was received more enthusiastically by ordinary women than by the established feminists of the second wave. She had never been a paid-up member of any feminist group, and many in the sisterhood were irked when she became, overnight, an icon of feminism. Nevertheless, The Female Eunuch became a \u2013 perhaps the \u2013 classic text of their movement. It brought Germaine wealth and fame. It made her an international celebrity.\n\nIn the 1970s, she bought and decorated beautiful houses in London and Tuscany, she created magnificent gardens, and entertained and was entertained by some of the most famous literary and artistic figures in the world. But always she remained a committed professional with an extraordinary work ethic. After her resignation from Warwick University in 1972 she became a working journalist, travelling extensively to report on the lives of ordinary people, especially women, who were suffering in countries like Vietnam, India, Bangladesh and famine-torn Ethiopia. Her archive houses many of the remarkable photographs she took in those communities.\n\nIn 1979, she accepted a position at the University of Tulsa, Oklahoma, as Professor of Modern Letters. On taking up the appointment she became founder and director of the Tulsa Center for the Study of Women's Literature. By that time she was beginning to realise, with great sadness, that her efforts to become pregnant, which included expensive Harley Street surgery, had failed and that she would never bear a child.\n\nIn 1985, after returning to England, she sold her home in London and moved to Mill Farm, later The Mills, a house on a small acreage at Stump Cross, near the town of Saffron Walden in Essex. Her years at The Mills, which Greer put on the market in 2018, have probably been the most contented of her life. She has been incredibly busy \u2013 away from home for long periods on lecture and promotional tours, regularly appearing on television and radio, writing books, articles and newspaper columns, attending to a huge volume of correspondence and carrying out literary research on her special interests: Shakespeare, and women artists and writers. She has done most of her work in her workshop, a large building separate from the main house at The Mills, with the aid of an assistant. This building housed her archive before it was sold to the University of Melbourne in 2013. It was also the home of Stump Cross Books, a self-financed venture dedicated to publishing the works of women writers.\n\nNo long-term lovers or friends ever lived with Greer on a permanent basis at The Mills; instead, she shared her house with a moving feast of individuals she called 'Other Peoples' Children' (OPCs) and 'Non-Paying Guests' (NPGs), many of whom were university students who were expected to work in the house, workshop and garden in exchange for their keep. Most of all she loved her standard poodles, her parrot and her cats.\n\nFrom The Mills, which is only a short drive to Cambridge, Greer was able to resume her connections with Newnham College and its library. In 1989 she was appointed as a special lecturer and unofficial fellow of Newnham, posts she held until 1998, when she resigned because of her opposition to a transgender woman becoming a fellow of the college.\n\nIn 1989, Greer wrote her most personal book, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You. It tells of her lonely journey across several continents to find out the truth about her father's life, only to discover, finally, that he was a liar and a fraud.\n\nBetween 1979 and 1999, in addition to scholarly works (notably Shakespeare, for the Oxford University Press Past Masters series), and Daddy . . ., Germaine Greer wrote three major books about women: Sex and Destiny: The politics of human fertility in 1984; The Change: Women, ageing and the menopause in 1991; and The Whole Woman in 1999. In each, she set down her thoughts about women's lives at particular life stages \u2013 each stage matching the one she herself was experiencing at that period.\n\nGermaine Greer has lived most of her life in England, but for the past twenty years or so she has spent at least four months of each year in Australia. In 2013 she published White Beech: The rainforest years, which tells of her discovery and purchase of Cave Creek, a former farm in Southern Queensland, where she decided to live and work for part of every year as the director of a major rainforest rehabilitation project.\n\nShe has donated most of the three million dollars she was paid for her archive to Friends of Gondwana Rainforest, a charity she founded, whose flagship project is the Cave Creek Rainforest Rehabilitation Scheme (CCRRS).\n\nOn 29 January 2019, she will turn eighty. She continues to appear regularly on radio and television programs and to perform on public platforms in England and Australia.\n\nThe main source of information for this biography has been Germaine Greer herself \u2013 her writing, her theatre and media performances and interviews, her lectures, her academic research, her journalism. She does not hold back. For a person who insists that her personal life is not interesting, she has told us all we need to know about herself and more.\n\nAnother major source for the biography was the large volume of writing about Germaine from authors like David Plante, James Hughes-Onslow, Barry Humphries, Clive James, Ian Britain and Richard Neville.\n\nSome of her old friends and acquaintances, most notably Richard Walsh, Phillip Frazer, Professor Stephen Knight, Fay Weldon and Carmen Callil, were happy to share their memories of Germaine Greer with me, but others I approached chose to remain silent. Some asked to be anonymous and I have respected their wishes while noting their comments.\n\nIn 2016, I was fortunate to meet and make friends with a group of former Star of the Sea nuns and students who were Germaine's contemporaries at school and had known her well. They and various other people who remembered her at university were more than happy to reminisce about their association with her.\n\nThe Germaine Greer Archive is another rich source of information about Greer's life and work. To say that it is massive would be an understatement. Currently, it occupies eighty-two metres of shelf space at the University of Melbourne Archives repository in Brunswick. There are about five hundred boxes that include personal, professional and other correspondence; notes and drafts relating to all of her academic studies; copies of all of her major works, with drafts, research materials, proofs, clippings and publicity; files on her print, radio and television journalism and appearances, with contracts and commissions; photographs; records relating to university appointments; research files on women and literature and women artists; the records of Stump Cross Books; honours and awards; and an extensive collection of audiovisual material.\n\nBetween March 2017 and February 2018 I spent many hours going through the boxes and listening to the audio tapes in the Germaine Greer Collection, searching for material that would inform the kind of biographical study I wanted to write. Greer has claimed that the archive is more of a representation of the times she has lived in than of herself, but in saying this she is only partly right, for what emerges from those five hundred boxes is a portrait of an extraordinary woman whose influence on the culture and mores of her time has been immense.\n\nWhen deciding to write Germaine's story, I wanted to discover 'the truth' about her life, but one of the first lessons she taught me was how hard this was likely to be. 'None of us,' she wrote in 1989, 'grasps more than a little splinter of the truth.' I have endeavoured to gather some of those splinters and piece them together to create a 'truthful' coherent narrative about her life and work, but splinters they are and must remain.\n\nIn shaping the narrative, the first task I set myself was to consider her contribution to second-wave feminism. I had no wish to embark on an academic study of the many facets of this subject \u2013 better to leave that to the professional scholars in the burgeoning field of women's studies. My conclusions have been drawn from extensive study of Greer's work in light of the professional literature, but they are also based on a series of more personal impressions about a movement from which I and my contemporaries benefited and in which we participated. Only two things are certain: first, women's lives today are very different from how they were when Germaine Greer and I left school, and second, much of the change that has occurred over the past half century can be directly attributed to her influence.\n\nMy next task appeared to be more straightforward. I wanted to find out who she was \u2013 really. At first, I thought this would be a matter of exploring behind what I perceived to be the mask of her public appearances. My original working title for the book was, in fact, 'Behind the Mask', but this had to change when I realised that there is no mask. In public, as in private, as in her writing and performances, she is complex, engaging, amusing, often puzzling and frustrating, occasionally downright nasty, but if she is hiding anything of significance about herself, I have not been able to find it.\n\nIn other words, what you see with Germaine Greer is what you get. When she says, 'I don't know why I am the way I am', and 'Bugger me if I know why I'm famous', she is telling the simple truth. Rare talent like hers is never contrived. Her gifts were apparent in her earliest years and it has been natural though not easy for her to hone and cultivate those gifts through a lifetime of intense scholarship and unremitting hard work.\n\nSome people of her own generation, especially old white males and illiberal women, still tend to dismiss her as a ratbag and, to be fair, she often acts like one. Others, however, including feminist publisher Carmen Callil and writer Fay Weldon, consider her to be a genius. I have come to believe that history will prove them right, that new generations will acknowledge the genius of Germaine Greer, and that she will ultimately be recognised as one of the most influential and significant women in the Australian diaspora.\n1\n\nWho does she think she is?\n\nHappy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.\n\nLeo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina\n\nGermaine Greer was five years old when she and her mother went to Spencer Street station in Melbourne to pick up her father from the troop train. She had only the haziest memories of him, but she knew from the photograph on the maple sideboard at home that he would be handsome and smiling. She was sure she would recognise him.\n\nSpencer Street station in 1944 smelled of stale urine.1 Twenty-seven-year-old Peggy Greer was searching for her husband, at first eagerly, then anxiously, then frantically, dragging her little daughter behind her along the platform. Several times Germaine was almost knocked over in the crush of the returning servicemen's greatcoats. She began to daydream, convinced that her father was not there as, gradually, the crowds of men and their welcoming families grew thinner.\n\nSuddenly, Peggy stopped and let go of her daughter's arm. An old man was standing by a pylon, staring mindlessly. 'His neck stuck scrawnily out of the collar of his grey-blue greatcoat. His eyes were sunken, grey and loose.'2 Surely, thought the little girl, her mother could not be intending to bring this unfortunate person home. Much better for her to stick with one of those generous American soldiers who had been so kind to her family while her father was away.\n\n'I had a good time with the Yanks,' Peggy told journalist Christine Wallace, who wrote the first biography of Germaine Greer in the late 1990s. 'They were nice to Germaine, too. They'd go into her nursery with cigars and tell her bedtime stories . . . Perhaps I shouldn't have done that . . .'\n\nPerhaps she shouldn't have.\n\nThe Americans on rest and recreation leave produced a deep, competitive anger among Australian men fighting overseas who had left wives and girlfriends behind at home . . . Peggy felt threatened because she thought her daughter might have witnessed an infidelity . . . 'And she's right,' Germaine reflected more than forty years later . . . 'I was a witness . . . I can remember one episode . . . which was nearly fatal . . . I was given a knockout drop . . . People don't forget, you know . . . Mum thought she'd got away with it, and she still thinks she got away with it, I guess.'3\n\nPeggy Lafrank first met Reg Greer on a fine day on Melbourne's elegant Collins Street in 1935. She was eighteen, an apprentice milliner, clicking along in high heels, the little hat she had made herself perched on her head. Reg was lounging in the sunshine with a group of his work cronies. Peg noticed him, stopped, turned and walked past the group again. He moved across to her and invited her for a cup of coffee. She suggested the cafe in the basement of the Manchester Unity Building. He was thirty years old.\n\nThe Depression was hardly over when Peggy first brought Reg home. A couple of months earlier, her mother, Alida 'Liddy' Lafrank, had finally seen off her abusive salesman husband and was now a single mother, struggling to provide for her family of three teenagers. This new young man of Peg's, with his good looks and delightful manners, seemed very promising. Suave, beautifully dressed and well-spoken, he had a good job as the Melbourne advertising representative for an Adelaide newspaper. Peggy would be safe with him and he would provide the family with the male protection it had lost.\n\nReg told them a few things about himself, but the Lafranks inferred most of what they thought they knew about him from his dapper appearance and bearing. His fine, almost English accent supported his claim to have been born in Durban in about 1905, of parents who, he hinted, were of superior colonial stock, and who had been passing through Natal from England to Australia at the time of his birth. Reg also managed to give them the impression that he had gone jackerooing after he left school and had wanted to go on the land, but that because his wealthy family had refused to support him, he had severed relations with them.\n\nAustralia is a country of immigrants. Everyone but the Indigenous inhabitants ultimately comes from somewhere else, and it is perhaps because their experiences or the experiences of their ancestors in those other places were mostly unpleasant that many families have been left without memories or records of their history. For several generations, a kind of collective amnesia prevailed. Better not to ask where your great-grandmother came from, or what she did there. It would be impolite to probe the secrets of the convict ship or the hungry hovels of slum and countryside. Mind your own business.\n\nThis prevailing reserve goes some way towards explaining why Mrs Alida Lafrank did not bother to find out more about the young man who courted and married her daughter in 1937. The Lafranks knew that Reg Greer, like Alida's departed husband, was a professional salesman but they thought of this as a recommendation rather than a cause for suspicion. They were naive. Or maybe they just believed what they wanted to believe. Times were hard.\n\nGermaine Greer's parents, Margaret May (Peggy) Lafrank and Eric Reginald Greer, married in March 1937 at St Columba's Church, Elwood. The details recorded in the parish register show his year and place of birth as 1905 in Durban, South Africa. His father's name is recorded as Robert Greer, journalist, and his mother's as Emma Wise. This information would confuse as well as assist Germaine's efforts to trace her ancestry more than half a century later. Reg was not Catholic, but because the Lafranks were, he was ready to 'turn'4 and to promise that any children of the marriage would be brought up Catholic. Religion meant nothing to him. 'I don't know why I'm doing this,' he told his secretary, Joyce, when he described the lessons he was required to take from the parish priest, who, he said, had opened the door of the presbytery to him and Peggy dressed in a singlet, smelling strongly of alcohol.5\n\nHe completed his religious instruction with typical good humour, never revealing his true convictions, if any. Some would have described his behaviour as dishonest, but Reg Greer had obviously learned somewhere that it can pay to be economical with the truth.\n\nMany years later, when Germaine was writing her book about her father, she recalled how one would-be Greer biographer had cast Reg Greer as a brave soldier who was living in an army barracks when his first child was born. The truth was more prosaic: on that hot day in Melbourne, 29 January 1939, as Peggy laboured and the deadly bushfires of Black Friday still burned around the city, Reg was enjoying a few cool beers with his mate Wally Worboys in a flat in the bayside suburb of St Kilda.6\n\nPeggy said she had chosen her baby's name from that of a minor British actress she had found in an English magazine that Reg had brought home from work. Germaine's more romantic version was that she had been named for the Comte de Saint-Germain, a character in George Sand's The Countess of Rudolstadt, which Peggy had been reading during her pregnancy, 'because she liked the sound of it, I reckon'.7\n\nAs Peggy would have known, the tradition in the Catholic Church was and is that a new baby's baptismal name should be Christian in nature: something like 'Grace' or 'Charity', or the name of a saint. Parish priests were reluctant to baptise children whose parents departed from this principle. There is a Saint Germaine \u2013 a physically deformed French peasant girl, who was beaten and abused by her wicked stepmother and forced to live outside the family house in a barn. Overcoming the many vicissitudes of her miserable life, however, she cared for the homeless and was recognised in her village for her piety. Later she was believed to have had supernatural powers of healing and was canonised by Pope Pius IX in 1869. Pilgrims still visit her shrine in the village of Pibrac, near Toulouse, and it is likely that Germaine Greer has been among those visitors.\n\nWhen Germaine was a toddler, the Greers lived in a small flat in Elwood, which was then a lower-middle-class bayside suburb of Melbourne. During the day, after Reg had gone off on the tram to his office at Newspaper House in Collins Street, Peg liked to walk on the beach with her small daughter, 'a good baby'. Her husband was the breadwinner and, at least on the surface, a cheerful one.\n\nNearly fifty years after her parents' courtship and marriage, Germaine set out to find the truth about her father and to write about it in a book. She interviewed his former secretary, Joyce, who remembered Reg Greer as 'one of the boys', always full of jokes and stories, with a long, distinguished face that made him look like the film actor Basil Rathbone. She recalled Reg's pleasant working life at Newspaper House: at noon, after having coffee with his fellow reps at 11 am, he would enjoy an expense-account lunch with one of his various contacts, and at the end of the day he would adjourn to the Australia Hotel or the St Kilda Cricket Club to drink beers and cocktails with colleagues and clients. Although he seldom worked in the afternoons, said Joyce, Germaine's father was no slouch. He was a gun salesman, ever mindful of the need to schmooze important clients and to be in the office when his chief, Sir Lloyd Dumas, called from Adelaide.8\n\nJoyce also recalled Peggy's visits to the office. 'Your mother was always very smartly dressed, wonderful little hats, you know. A milliner, wasn't she? Very striking, tall. Wearing a lot of lipstick.'9\n\nOn 3 September 1939, seven months after Germaine's birth, the Greers, like most Australians, gathered around their bakelite radio to hear the Prime Minister Robert Menzies perform his 'melancholy duty' of informing them that because Great Britain had declared war on Germany, Australia was also at war. Blackout curtains may have gone up in a few homes, but nothing in the Greer household changed immediately. Reg continued to go to the office each day and come home each night to his pretty young wife and baby.\n\nIn the first three months of the war, the Australian Government managed to enlist only twenty thousand men in the Second Australian Imperial Forces. But this initial reluctance to fight turned around dramatically after Germany overran France in the northern hemisphere spring of 1940. Following the evacuation of Allied troops from Dunkirk in May\u2013June 1940, shocked Australians were brought to realise that Britain, already under attack from the air, really was standing alone against the enemy and that German victory, previously unthinkable, would have serious consequences for their own country. By June 1940, AIF enlistments had increased to the point where enough men were available to fill not only the 7th and 8th Divisions, but two more as well.10\n\nIt was not until November 1941 that Reg Greer turned up at a recruiting centre to volunteer for officer training under the Empire Air Training Scheme.11 Fourteen months earlier, on 27 September 1940, the Japanese had entered into a tripartite pact with Italy and Germany. One month later, on 7 December 1941, just before 8 am, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and America entered the war. Australia now seemed under direct threat of invasion, and the volunteer enlistment rate went up, and increased again after Singapore fell in 1942. By the time conscription was introduced early in 1943, there were few to argue against it as they had done in 1916, when the war was far away.\n\nOnly Reg could know what motivated him to enlist, and maybe he was not sure either. Germaine later suspected he was running away from home and her two-year-old self, but it is likely that he, like other volunteers, felt a genuine, atavistic urge to defend his family and country from the invader. He would have been susceptible to the prevailing propaganda and peer pressure, and the idea of becoming a smartly attired officer in the air force would have appealed to him, as would the idea of training as a pilot.\n\nHe was able to satisfy the recruiting panel that he had been born in South Africa of English parents, had attended senior public secondary school until the age of fifteen, had participated in acceptable sports \u2013 cricket, rowing \u2013 and had done officer cadet training. Apparently, no checks were made. He was less successful in the medical examination. Without his fine clothes he was exposed as a tall but skinny, narrow-chested individual with some serious health problems that included chronic rhinitis and a healed but still troublesome perforated right eardrum. These defects, plus his age, 37, meant that he could not be selected for pilot training. But there were other jobs.\n\nThe broken warrior Peggy Greer and her daughter brought home from Spencer Street station in 1944 was secretive when it came to talking about his war experiences. He told his family that, after leaving Australia, he had been selected for cipher training in Cairo and that his job was called 'Secret and Confidential Publications officer'. He had very few war stories to tell, but one captured Germaine's imagination and supported some of her later theories about what he was really up to. He had been scheduled to carry a machine, which she understood to be some kind of decoding machine, 'from somewhere to somewhere' by aeroplane. At the last minute, as he was waiting by the airstrip in a jeep, someone ran up to tell him that he must give the machine to a superior officer, who would take his place on the plane. He did as he was told and remained in the jeep to watch the plane take off, only to see it attacked by a German fighter and burst into flames, killing all on board.12\n\nReg Greer was invalided out of the army early in 1944, after the examining medical panel found that he suffered from an acute anxiety neurosis that made him unfit for war duty. Family life in the Greer household resumed but it was haunted by the events of the past two years. Reg went back to his old job. He was still a very successful advertising man, but his illness had stripped away much of the bravado that had first attracted Peggy to him. On the surface, little seemed to have changed, but the tension at home was unremitting: the dynamics had shifted so that, in their own ways, each member of the little family was disturbed. Being Catholics, there was no question of divorce. Reg would sit by the window, silently smoking, while Peggy got on with her housework or applied and reapplied her make-up in another room. Often, somewhat bizarrely dressed in a leotard, she would escape to the beach to develop her tan and exercise with a medicine ball. 'Reg and I weren't really good friends,' said Peggy in 1998. 'He was always polite.'13\n\nGermaine longed for her father to love her, but when she tried to hug him or climb onto his knee he would push her away, time after time, until she finally gave up. One episode recounted by her mother (if it is true, which Germaine later denied) points to some deep, pathological basis for his lack of feeling for his daughter and, probably, his wife. One afternoon, said Peggy, she was becoming anxious because Germaine, then aged about ten, was late home from school. Reg was sitting at the kitchen window as usual when he saw his daughter walking up the footpath, hand in hand with a man who was carrying her books. 'My God, what'll I do?' said Reg. 'I'm going to call the cops.'\n\nBy this time the ten-year-old and the man had disappeared into the bushes. When a policeman arrived on a bicycle he told the Greers that the fellow was known to them as 'a simple chap, always around'. He and Reg went down to the bushes and brought Germaine home. Peggy was furious. She pulled the toaster cord out of its socket and hit her daughter repeatedly as Reg looked on. But his main reaction was extraordinary.\n\nReg said to the cop: 'You should've let him get on with it. You shouldn't have stopped him. Then he could've been charged.' I wondered about what Reg had turned into that he took that attitude.14\n\nHad Reg Greer really 'turned into' something other than what he had always been? Had the war brutalised him to the extent that he was prepared to recommend the rape of his ten-year-old daughter for no other reason than to punish the offender? Or was he always like that? Was the man behind the salesman's mask a person who was incapable of natural feeling and affection because he had little or no experience of those qualities in other important people in his life? Guiltless in one way, abominably culpable in another?\n\nChildhood friends of Germaine recall 'Mr Greer' as a 'distant, unfriendly man \u2013 tall, with a moustache'. He did not seem to like children and they did not feel comfortable when he was around.\n\nWhat was Peggy turning into in those years after her husband returned from the war? It was she who, as her grown-up daughter still insists on telling the world, was the violent parent who beat her daughter, always with an instrument like a stick or the toaster cord, always suddenly and unexpectedly for reasons the child did not understand. Somewhere inside this furious woman was the pretty, still very young, vivacious girl who might have been a model and whose only experience of freedom and happiness had been the fun she had with the Americans while her husband was away. Memories of that time may have brought guilt, but that was nothing compared with the misery of being trapped for life in a loveless marriage with a war-damaged husband. The child Germaine could understand none of this. She was angry with her mother, she told BBC interviewer Anthony Clare in 1989, not because of the adultery but because Peggy had told her that if it had not been for her, Germaine, she would have left her husband.15\n\nThe Greers had two more children after Germaine. Jane was born on 5 February 1945, when her older sister was six. 'I did it for [Reg], really,' said Peg, 'and for Germaine. [We] needed something to settle us down.'16 In 1950, a son, Barry, was born. Neither of her siblings ever censured their parents to the extent that Germaine did, or felt that their childhood home was more dysfunctional than most. Many years later, Jane, who married into a wealthy and prominent Catholic family, told Germaine that her father's superior airs had always made her feel good about herself. 'When I went to Kilbreda,' she said, referring to the Catholic girls' secondary school in Mentone, 'I used to think of myself as a real toff. I reckon the old boy knew what he was doing.'17\n\nBarry, who became a primary school teacher and 'a committed socialist and a gut democrat', always defended his father: '. . . he made a stable family; he brought us all up well. Three out of three's not bad going . . .'18\n\nGermaine's perceptions were different. She believed that the reasons for the family's problems were never likely to surface in the strained, semi-polite milieu of the Greer household. To her repeated questions about his parents, Reg would sometimes reply that they were in England, at other times that they were dead. The child always carried with her the memory of witnessing her mother's adultery with at least one American soldier while her father was away. She knew, and her mother knew that she knew. Could the explanation for her father's coldness towards her be that he suspected what she knew and pushed her away lest she reveal the truth to him? Or was he afraid that this clever child would one day find out more about his past than he had ever confessed to anyone? Secrets, lies and deceptions were the stuff of daily life; to a young girl they were bewildering and ultimately the root of psychological damage.\n\nYet Germaine's parents were not so very different from many Australian people of their time and class \u2013 under-educated, not especially bright, suffering the lasting effects of war-damage. Their home held none of what Germaine later discovered to be the good things in life: there were few books, no paintings, no flowers, no music, no wine, no conversation. At mealtimes no one was permitted to speak. As Germaine grew into an intelligent, funny, curious girl, desperately eager to know about everything, she simply could not stand it. School was her one escape. Learning came as a blessed relief, and she could never get enough of it.\n\nShe started school at the age of four at St Columba's parish school, just around the corner from the Greer flat. She had not, like many similarly gifted children, taught herself to read before she started school, nor had she been encouraged to experience books at home. The maple bookcase in her family's living room, she recalled later, held only about twenty books: most of them belonged to her father. Some, like The Way of a Transgressor, by Negley Farson, in which she was later interested to read that whores make the best wives, bordered on being pornographic. There was a family Shakespeare and a dictionary and encyclopaedia that Reg had acquired at work. Nothing there to foster a love of literature in a child, but as an adult, she realised that she had become fascinated with words at an early age. Her grandmother gave her Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, which she loved, and The Water Babies, which she disliked. Then, inevitably, came Six O'Clock Saints and other sickly 'spiritual' texts. She discovered Milly-Molly-Mandy but, unlike many children of that era, she did not enter into the magic worlds of Enid Blyton or Beatrix Potter. She read as voraciously as she could up to the age of ten, but she did not read for pleasure. Reading, at home at least, was mainly a way of escape, something to do when she could find no common ground for interacting with anyone in her family.\n\nThis began to change in 1949, when her mother gave her a copy of David Copperfield. Emotionally engaged for the first time in a work of literature, she fell in love with her first Byronic hero, Steerforth. 'The mixture of feelings that welled up in my nearly 11-year-old bosom when Steerforth seduced Emily while Byronically hating himself for it, to end drowned at Yarmouth . . . was my introduction to grown up passion . . . that book sent me off on a life-long search for Mr Wrong, including two years post graduate work on Byron and a longer infatuation with Rochester.'19\n\nFrom then on, she was hooked. She borrowed as much Dickens as she could find in the school library. 'Dickens had rescued me from both the aversion therapy of the schoolroom and my own perverse nature. I read for pleasure at last.'20\n\nGermaine was musically gifted \u2013 she even claimed to have perfect pitch \u2013 but as a child she did not have the opportunity to learn a musical instrument. Unlike many middle- and lower-middle-class houses of that time, the Greer home did not have a piano. But both Reg and Peg liked to sing. Reg had a fine tenor voice and a large repertoire of light operatic songs like his favourite, 'Oh for the weengs, the weengs of a derve', which he loved to sing in the bath. Peg would wander around the house crooning 'Smoke gets in your eyes' and other pop songs of the time in a passable American accent.\n\nWhen Germaine was twelve, her mother took her into town on the tram to see a film of Il Trovatore. That was the start of her life-long love affair with opera. 'When the unknown and unseen soprano swung into \"Tacea la notte\" I thought my soul would burst. That night I woke myself up singing a wordless version of \"Gli accordi d'un luito\".'21 But her musical education, like her literary advancement, would depend not on the influences of home but of school. The nuns of the Irish Presentation Order, who were Germaine Greer's only schoolteachers, can take most of the credit for the successful early development of her talents. She was aware of this, and she later thanked them for it.\n\nAs a war baby, Germaine escaped the worst of the strains that were to bring the Australian Catholic education system to its knees during the postwar population boom: her classes, though large by today's standards, were unremarkable then. Her teachers, the unpaid, idealistic, reasonably well-qualified nuns, were at once inspired and shackled by the vows of obedience that tied them to ancient orthodoxies. At this period, before European migrants arrived with their sunnier versions of Catholicism, the Australian church still followed the florid, superstition-laden traditions of the mother Church in Ireland, and it was those traditions that Germaine's teachers did their best to transmit to their students. 'Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man,' once famously said Saint Francis Xavier, founder of the male teaching order of Jesuits. Germaine and many of the thousands of her contemporaries who were educated under this principle in the 1940s and 1950s proved him right. Most managed, eventually, to cast off the trappings of their indoctrination, but at some deep psychological level the old programming never went away.\n\nIn Catholic as in government schools, money was tight in the first half of the twentieth century. The prevailing view was that while a primary school education was the right of every child, and necessary for the development of a modern industrial society, secondary education should be reserved for those who could afford to pay for it \u2013 and for the very bright children of the working and lower middle classes.\n\nGermaine Greer was firmly in the second category. In Year 7 she won a diocesan scholarship that allowed her to continue to one of the Catholic girls' central schools where nuns, for one concentrated year, deliberately and systematically 'crammed' their students to succeed in the examination for a Junior Government Scholarship that would fund their secondary education. Subjects included French, German, Latin, and, unbelievably, 'Intelligence Tests'.22 At this school, Holy Redeemer, in Hotham Street, Ripponlea, Germaine relished the demanding curriculum and the company of other bright scholarship winners. The contrast between school and her culturally bleak home life became ever more apparent.\n\nAt the end of Year 8 and their one year at Holy Redeemer, Germaine and most of her similarly bright and well-prepared friends easily won scholarships and continued to the Star of the Sea convent in Gardenvale for the final four years of their education. The nuns loved these clever girls, but had difficulty coping with the wide differences in ability between them and the other students. In future years, whole books would be written for teachers on how to handle such 'diversity' in their classrooms, but the enterprising nuns had long before developed their own methods: 'Girls from Holy Redeemer keep your hands down,' they would demand, when posing a question for the class. 'That was the Star of the Sea version of how to manage a mixed-ability classroom,' commented one bored scholarship girl, who recalled missing the challenges of her high-pressure central school. 'I didn't learn much at all after I left Holy Redeemer,' she said years later.23\n\n'If it hadn't been for the nuns,' said Greer in 1985, 'I might have gone to secretarial college, had streaks put in my hair and married a stockbroker. The nuns [at Holy Redeemer] groomed me, crammed me to bursting so that I won a scholarship . . .'24\n\nThe 1950s were the years of McCarthyism in America and the rising influence of the anti-communist Democratic Labor Party in Australia. Anti-communist sentiment among Catholics was high. At mass every Sunday Germaine listened, part intrigued, part bored, part puzzled while the priest droned on, citing examples of the Australian Labor Party's failure to oppose communist infiltration of the unions and reminding the flock of their duty to do something about it. Outside the church, groups of men gathered around tables where Catholic newspapers like the Catholic Worker and B.A. Santamaria's News Weekly were being sold. Some of the men seemed agitated.25 The curious child wondered what that was all about.\n\nCatholic schools were powerhouses of anti-communism. In their history classes and daily Christian doctrine classes, students were carefully inducted into Church dogma: 'good' was defined by Rome, 'evil' emanated from Moscow. Often, the nuns and brothers, inspired by their determination to combat the evils of the world, i.e. sex and communism, would put their own spin on the situation. Germaine has recalled Sister Cyril, her history teacher, displaying charts of Soviet missiles aimed squarely at her country and school. She and her classmates knew that sooner or later they would be called to do battle against those communist forces of darkness. The only problem was that the external examiners who would decide their fate at the Leaving and Matriculation examinations might not be Catholic. During one lesson, in which Sister Cyril was teaching the class about the incursions of the communists into Eastern Europe, Germaine raised her hand. 'Sister, wouldn't it be more useful to discuss communism as a political movement rather than a work of the devil?'\n\nSister Cyril's face became pink.\n\n'What other explanation can there be but the devil's treachery?'\n\n'But, Sister, in the exams we can't describe communism as a supernatural phenomenon.'\n\n'I cannot talk to you in these terms, Germaine Greer,' said Sister Cyril, returning to her chart. 'Leave the room.'26\n\nThe Star of the Sea convent school, as Germaine has pointed out, was a self-contained female society. The world of heterosexual relations lay beyond the walls, and nobody gave it too much thought. Girls had crushes on each other and on the nuns, but most of them had never heard of lesbianism and would not have known how to practise it if they had. 'The love that dare not speak its name' was exactly that in convent life.\n\nAt Holy Redeemer, Germaine had become friends with another bright scholarship girl called Jennifer Midgley (later Dabbs). At 'Star', the relationship developed into what both girls later described as a love affair. Apparently, the nuns did not openly discourage their friendship, perhaps because they were unaware of its potentially homosexual character, more likely because both girls were so exceptionally attractive and gifted that their teachers could not conceive of anything 'unsavoury' happening between them. And they were right. Nothing did.\n\nJennifer excelled at singing and the piano: the two girls would seize every opportunity to be alone in an instrumental practice room, where Germaine would assume the role of George Sand to Jennifer's Chopin, scribbling poetry into an exercise book while Jennifer played nocturnes. They would hold hands surreptitiously when singing in the school choir, and together they performed the leading roles in school plays. After her acclaimed performance as the Duke of Plaza-Toro in The Gondoliers Germaine autographed Jennifer's program, 'Germaine Greer who belongs to JM'.27\n\nThe affair lived on in the memories of both women long after they left school. In her novel Beyond Redemption, a roman \u00e0 clef written thirty years later, Jennifer described the passionate relationship between Katie Mitchell (herself) and Michaela, easily recognisable as Germaine, at their school, 'Stella Maris'.\n\nShe wasn't what was considered to be 'pretty'; there was far too much character in her face, and a vivacious intelligence shone out of her clear green eyes. Her hair was tawny and curlier than mine. It stood out around her head like a nimbus, complementing her clear creamy skin and contrasting with those startling eyes.28\n\nWas it a lesbian relationship? According to Jennifer it was 'passionate, spiritual and romantic rather than genital'. Germaine, she thought, was, like herself, 'sexually naive'.\n\nGermaine was the first person outside my family who loved me, and I realized: I love you. It was unconditional, heady, unlike parental love, which was conditional. The sexual thing came later. It seemed very natural, the limited amount of sexual contact we had.29\n\nGermaine's view is more complex. In The Female Eunuch, she recalls her mother's horrified reaction at discovering a romantic letter she had written to Jennifer. To stop Peggy's hysterics, she attempted to placate her by explaining that homosexual relationships were only part of a growing-up phase, common in teenage girls, and that she was already over it. But she knew, even then, that this was a cheap denial of something fine and true. She was ashamed, not of the affair, but of her betrayal of her first love.30\n\nOn matters of heterosexual sex, the Church's teaching was crystal clear and the nuns neglected no opportunity to inculcate that teaching into their girls. No sex at all, 'in thought, word or deed', until marriage. A Catholic girl who was tainted by any suggestion of 'impurity' could expect that no man would want to marry her. Worse, however \u2013 much worse \u2013 was that even the smallest stirring of a sexual thought or feeling \u2013 by accidentally picking up a Pix magazine in the hairdressers, for example \u2013 would, if she did not instantly repress it, plunge her straight into a state of mortal sin, so that if she should die on the way home she would go straight to Hell. The only way to be purged of her sin was to confess it to a priest, and the nuns made sure that Confession was a regular event in the lives of their charges. Convent girls were taught the formula at the age of six, and the order of the ritual did not vary. Typically, it went something like this:\n\n'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession, Father, and I accuse myself of telling lies, swearing and thinking impure thoughts.'\n\nPriest: 'Now, these impure thoughts, child \u2013 how often did they occur?'\n\nGirl: 'Five times, Father.'\n\nPriest: 'And were you alone?'\n\nGirl: 'Yes, Father.'\n\nPriest: 'And were the thoughts accompanied by any actions?'\n\nGirl (not having the faintest idea what he was driving at): 'No, Father.'\n\nPriest: 'When these thoughts come again, my child, you should picture in your mind the beautiful face of Our Blessed Lady in all her purity. Do you think you could do that?'\n\nGirl: 'Yes, Father.'\n\nPriest: 'Say two Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys.' Then something in Latin which meant 'Go, your sins are forgiven,' and it was all over. Oh, the blessed relief!\n\nIn 2000, in an interview with a mature-age student of English, Germaine remembered a long-ago episode in the confessional. 'When I was at school I was a clown, always could be relied upon to put myself into totally disastrous situations if I thought there was a laugh in it . . . We had this priest . . . And there I was confessing my usual impure thoughts.\n\n'\"I'm troubled with impure thoughts, Father . . .\"\n\n'\"When you have these impure thoughts, are you thinking of anyone in particular?\"\n\n'And I just wanted to say \"Yes Father. YOU!!!\" And I thought, no, that's a sin against the Holy Ghost. You can't lie in the Confessional. But it would have been such a laugh! What would he have done? Listen, you know what men are like, he would have believed me . . . that would have been the next joke . . . \"Well, actually, Father, I was kidding.\"'31\n\nIn the intervals between the many instances of religious observance, convent life would proceed as tranquilly as the daily battles with Satan and communism would allow. The main weapon against sex was denial: for much of the time the girls did not think too much about boys because theirs was a female world. But when their charges grew to about sixteen, the nuns recognised that if they were to become good Catholic wives and mothers, there would sooner or later need to be some mingling of the sexes. So they and the priests and brothers from the boys' schools managed to organise mixed-sex dances and dancing classes.\n\nUnited as they were in their struggles against global inequalities, the clerical Catholic school-dance organisers of 1950s Melbourne accepted and even fostered the rigid social class divisions among their flocks. 'Marry your own' did not only mean marrying another Catholic, it also meant marrying within the economic and social circle in which God had decided to place your family. Girls from convents that charged high fees and thought themselves superior, like Loreto and Sacre Coeur, were partnered with boys from the Jesuits' Xavier College at dancing classes like those taught by the Misses Brennan at St Peters Church hall in Toorak. Girls from Star of the Sea, which belonged to a lower, though not the lowest, fee-paying tier of Catholic girls' schools, danced with boys from similarly lower-tiered boys' schools staffed by orders like the Christian Brothers.\n\nFor these petty but very real snobberies and for the artificial bonhomie of the suddenly acceptable coming together of male and female, the young Germaine Greer had nothing but scarcely comprehending scorn, but scorn could not save her from embarrassment; the dances had to be endured, and for an adolescent girl who had grown to nearly six feet tall, they were agonising affairs. 'I was a freak. At six feet I was too tall for normal sexual relationships . . . It was just agony for me to go to a dance because I couldn't get around the floor. No one could steer me and I didn't know how to succumb,' she told journalist Claudia Dreifus in 1975.32\n\nShe also recalled her mortification when the nuns, who, as she remarked, could hardly be expected to have any idea of the banality of sex, tried to prepare and protect their girls from the dancing boys' uncontrollable urges.\n\nThe silliness of the nuns is amazing in retrospect. Before school dances we had to be inspected to make sure our dresses did not bare any inflammatory zones of bosom or under arms. Into the boat-neck of my home-made yellow organza they thrust paper tissues, just in case I should dance with an eight-foot giant who would be the only person capable of glimpsing the top of my empty blue brassiere.33\n\nSuch were the influences on Germaine Greer in matters of sex, a subject upon which she would have much to say in the years that followed. There was also the spiritual side of her education, remnants of which would also remain with her for life. Christian doctrine was a core subject in all Catholic schools, taught daily like English and Maths. Much of it was about the 'proofs' of the existence of God. Germaine thought that the nuns were not particularly good at this: the strength of their simple faith was not matched by their ability to sustain a logical argument. Had she been taught by clever Jesuits, she thought later, she may never have abandoned Catholicism, but as it was, by the time she reached sixth form, 'not one of the arguments was good enough. The ghost had left the machine forever.'34\n\nSo she believed; but more deeply penetrating of her psyche were the Church's mystical traditions of self-denial and contemplation, as expressed in the spiritual practices of saints like Teresa of \u00c1vila.\n\nI began to practise self-denial, eating things I didn't want, not eating things I did want, mortifying my flesh by sitting in uncomfortable positions or standing when I could sit or putting a stone in my shoe, uttering what were known as 'pious ejaculations' the while . . .\n\nI would slip through the convent garden after school and into the Presence of the Blessed Sacrament, kneel directly on the cold stone floor, raise my arms and meditate on the Passion. The method was concentration; the aim was the direct apprehension of the ubiquity of Christ . . .35\n\nShe wondered if she had a vocation to become a nun: '\"Do you really want me Lord?\" I would ask. \"Is this what you have in mind for me?\"'\n\nIt has never left her, that unfulfilled yearning for the spiritual:\n\nCompared to the anguish of scepticism the yoke of my religion was easy and its burden light. I love to go to the Easter ceremonies in the darkened church, and join in with the congregation in begging the light of Christ to return, as the candles are lit from the Paschal fire, and the bells are rung and the Gloria flames out. I love Mother Church as the nuns love me, when all I can do for them is get myself nominated as Australia's foremost female ratbag.36\n\nBefore the advent of the contraceptive pill in the 1960s, and before Germaine Greer wrote The Female Eunuch, Catholic mothers had one crucial piece of advice for their daughters: 'Make sure you marry a good man,' they would say. Behind that sentence lay a multitude of expectations and fears. If a girl did not marry, who would 'keep' her? Life for a poorly educated, single woman meant either eking out a living in a low-paid job, probably living a lonely life in a boarding house, or remaining at home as an unpaid housemaid, 'kept' by her father or brothers. Some chose the convent. Marriage was the usual way out, but the girls did not understand what their mothers were trying to tell them: marriage to a not-good man, or even a poor provider, would mean a lifetime of drudgery and abuse, weary bodies pumping out babies to satisfy the egos and sexual demands of often brutal partners.\n\nThe Catholic Church was not into male brutality in marriage. Rather, it conveniently advocated for the 'good man' theory: in the Catholic boys' schools, priests and brothers taught the boys to respect and love women as Jesus Christ loved his virgin mother, and most of them probably did. But the young girls only half understood what their mothers had learned \u2013 that, as wives and mothers themselves, they would be forced to submit. While they could hardly fail to see that all real power in marriage resided with men, gentle or otherwise, they did not understand that the consequences of their own powerlessness could be dire. Once they were married it was too late. The system was stacked against them. Divorce was a mortal sin, contraception was a mortal sin, and the many women who confided their pain to the local priest in confession were told to go home and behave themselves.\n\nOf the fifty-plus girls in Germaine's matriculation class at Star, most chose marriage. In 1998, four of her old friends, who had also been her classmates at St Columba's Primary School \u2013 Joan O'Callaghan (nee Corboy), Theo Kinnaird (nee Molan), Jan Coleman (nee Parker) and Marian Shanahan (nee Titheredge) \u2013 reminisced about their 'class of 1954'. Their life choices and attitudes, so typical of the time, but so different from Germaine's, give some indication of the magnitude of Germaine's rebellion against the expectations of her family, Church and society.37\n\nJoan won a nursing bursary, but she was only seventeen and her family did not want her to live in a nurses' home.\n\nDad said he didn't want me living in the nurses' home and would drive me there every morning. I knew then that I couldn't leave home, and I wasn't really keen to anyway.\n\nShe decided against a nursing career and got a job as a draftswoman in the titles office ('Dad knew someone.'). She continued to study music, in which she excelled, and was building a small teaching practice.\n\nBut all I really wanted to do was get married and have children. I met my husband Michael when I was 18. It was love at first sight. Michael was 26, one of eight in an Irish family, a land surveyor who was finishing off his studies. Ten days after our first date, he proposed.\n\nTheo Kinnaird's husband, Patrick, remarked benignly that she was 'getting on a bit' when she married him at the age of 27. She had finished her nursing training by then, and worked for some years as a nurse in the St Vincent's home care program. Patrick was a veterinarian. Theo helped him in the practice they established in Black Rock, a bayside suburb of Melbourne, and they had five daughters.\n\nJan Coleman went to Melbourne University after leaving Star and became a librarian. She married her husband, John, in 1964 and had five children, 'one after the other'.\n\nLuckily I didn't have to go back to work because John, who is a barrister, was earning madly to try and keep up the pace.\n\nMarian Shanahan's life took a different course that is indicative of the changes that were starting to occur in the 1960s. When she left Star in 1957, she became a nun with the Daughters of Charity in Sydney. She stayed for eight years. After leaving the convent she taught until 1969, leaving about a year later when she married and became pregnant. Later, she went back to teaching, got divorced, and continued with her career.\n\nPerhaps strangely, given her later reputation for being difficult, most of Germaine's contemporaries from Star speak well of her and are proud of her success. They remember her for the fearless way she would stand up for herself and others, her academic brilliance, her acting performances in school productions, and, especially, her humour. One recalls how, when reprimanded by a nun for sniffing in class, Germaine responded by stuffing a whole bedsheet into her desk and making loud and liberal use of it as a handkerchief. A girl who sat behind her in class remembered that Germaine kept a photograph of Robert Helpmann under the lid of her desk, and when the nuns were not looking, she would kiss it, whispering 'Oh Bobby Darling!'\n\nEven then, however, some of her friends believed that she had a mean streak. She was big and powerful and it was not wise to offend her.\n\nGermaine and I got on very well . . . but there was always the proviso, always the condition, that if you were going to be a friend you were also vulnerable to anything she might do with you: being very good and friendly and protective from the awful things the nuns might have done as punishment and the next day just wiping the floor with you \u2013 or running you down, or saying something terribly sarcastic, embarrassing things about you in front of everybody. She was really quite mean.38\n\nWriting to Germaine in 1975, however, another old school friend, who had become a nun upon leaving school, but who later gave up her vocation to marry and have children, made the interesting observation that her friend's disconcerting habit of turning on people was not driven by 'malice'.\n\nI was always quite proud of you . . . but would also know better than to rely on you. Your interests were so quick-silver and without a trace of malice you could switch on and off a person to an alarming, to the person, degree.39\n\nBut some other students were wary. Margaret O'Keeffe, who was the leader of a drama group in which Germaine and Jennifer Midgley were talented performers, told her family that, as well as being more than a little afraid of Germaine Greer at school, she actively disliked her. She recounted how Germaine would make fun of Jennifer in the group, mimicking her friend's beautiful singing voice in an ugly, mocking falsetto. Margaret could not understand why a girl could behave so hurtfully to such a close friend. She decided to keep well clear of Germaine Greer, believing her, perhaps mistakenly, to be a 'cruel' person.40\n\nMost of the other girls viewed this aspect of Germaine's character as part of her general eccentricity. 'Oh Germaine!' they would exclaim, until it became a kind of catchcry.\n\nGermaine loved the nuns. 'I am still a nun. I am still made in their likeness,' she told writer Duncan Fallowell in 1994.\n\n. . . the childishness of nuns, the girlishness of them. They show you there's another way of living. You don't have to be a wife and mother. It was very interesting to be with those crazy women who laughed all the time.41\n\nIn her chapter in There's Something about a Convent Girl, a collection of several prominent Australian women's memories of their convent schooling, Germaine recalled Sister Eymard, who tried to teach her the proofs of the existence of God, but failed because she didn't know them herself \u2013 or because they weren't valid. There was Sister Raymond, who had never seen a great work of art in her life, but who taught her that art was beautiful, and of whom she would always think when she later visited the great galleries of Europe.\n\nI sometimes wonder what it would be like if I took her with me round Europe and said 'You remember what you taught me about Chartres? Well this is Chartres and this is what it looks like.'42\n\nAnd Sister Attracta, the choirmistress, 'a tiny Irishwoman with rose petal skin'.\n\n'Sing, child,' Attracta demanded loudly of new-girl Germaine.\n\nGermaine sang.\n\n'Can ye read music?\n\n'No, Sister.'\n\n'Well, we should be thankful ye can hold a tewn.'\n\nShe played a melody. 'Can ye sing that?'\n\nGermaine had a go.\n\n'Yew can sing the discant.'\n\nSo Germaine learned to sing the descant, 'one of the greatest earthly joys, the one that will take me to heaven. Singing in harmony.' She sang at lunchtimes, after school, and even at weekends, rejoicing as much in escaping from home as in the music.43\n\nBut her love of the Catholic nuns who had taught her certainly did not extend to the Pope: 'The Pope! The Pope is an abominable, publicity seeking, sanctimonious shit!'44\n\nThe nuns' reactions to The Female Eunuch when it was published in 1971 say much for their levels of tolerance, erudition and compassion, especially considering their aversion to and likely ignorance about all matters of sex. The first I heard of the book was from a Presentation nun, Sister Magdalen O'Neill, my aunt, who lived at Star. 'One of our girls has written a book,' she said, as my mother and I sipped our tea in the spotless reception parlour. (Auntie Rose was not allowed to take afternoon tea with us. I used to think the nuns probably didn't eat or drink at all.) 'Her old teachers are all talking about it. They are very excited and proud of her, although I've heard it's a bit . . .' Her eyebrows went up and the sentence was left hanging in the air as Auntie Rose sat back, flicking her rosary beads and exuding her own pride in the former Star girl's achievement.\n\nClaudia Wright, an Australian feminist radio personality and a friend of Germaine, interviewed Sister Raymond in 1971 in her cosy office at Avila College in Mount Waverley, where she had become principal. Sister Raymond said that she had found The Female Eunuch 'a delight to read, a work of deep scholarship'. She remembered Germaine with great fondness.\n\nA delightful girl, big in form and mind, [she had] a generous heart . . . She was very uninhibited and would come out with some very blunt remarks \u2013 but that was in discussion and that didn't matter in an art class because she was terribly creative and the more a person is like that the better it is.45\n\nIn the late 1970s, Sister Eymard wrote to her former pupil, who had contacted her upon hearing she had been ill.\n\nSo much water has passed under the bridge since the days when you challenged your teachers . . . I am proud of your courage in stating your convictions and touched by your kindness to the disadvantaged. If we differ on a few ideas, we do both believe in justice and generosity.\n\nI certainly remember you with your searching eyes and restless frame and quick brain.46\n\nHer experiences at school, and later university, were Germaine's escape from what she felt to be an intolerable, shameful situation at home. It was not only the boredom, the ignorance and the philistinism that permeated every family interaction; there was something else, a dark secret or secrets that hung over the household like a toxic brown cloud.\n\nWhat could it all mean \u2013 the half-obvious lies and deceits, the strange behaviours of her mother, her father's silent withholding of affection? She knew she was clever, so why could she not find out what his secrets were? She tried to interrogate him. Who were his parents? Why were there no relations, no cousins from his side of the family whom she could meet and get to know? And what of her mother's indiscretions? Germaine said nothing to Peggy about what might have happened when she was given those knockout drops during the American serviceman's visit to their flat during the war. But she knew. Her mother knew that she knew and that she was smart enough to understand what had happened. Her father, too, could see that a clever girl like Germaine might just succeed in exposing his lies. So he pushed her away. 'I completely mistook the way to his heart. I only threatened him by being so clever. I should have tried to be lovable.'47\n\nReg probably suspected his wife's infidelity, but he kept his suspicions to himself. Peggy must have had doubts about her husband's past too, for there was no one to substantiate his stories about his birth, childhood and youth. His known life seemed to have begun in Adelaide at some time in the 1920s, where friends and colleagues remembered him as a seller of advertising space in the Adelaide Advertiser. By the time he met young Peggy Lafrank in Collins Street in 1935, he had moved to Melbourne and become a bon viveur. Full of jokes and clever repartee, he was truly one of the boys, a man about town who liked to watch the pretty girls of Collins Street walk by.\n\nThe man Germaine discovered when she began to write Daddy, We Hardly Knew You appeared to have been well liked, but when she spoke to his secretary, Joyce, she found out more than she really wanted to know. There was one man, said Joyce, who had no time for Reg Greer. This man's name was 'Mr Bednall'. Joyce had been to his house for dinner and met his family, who, she said, were 'distinguished', 'decent' people. Mr Bednall could see behind Reg's public mask and so, for good reasons, could Joyce. 'Your father was a sensual man,' she said.\n\nJoyce told Germaine about episodes of what would now be seen for what it was \u2013 sexual harassment. Her sixteen-year-old bosom was often a source of crude jokes in the office. 'I just laughed it off,' she told Germaine, 'but your father was always brushing past me.' When she came upon him and the other reps 'talking dirty', she would quietly leave. At least they didn't do that in front of her, she said, and she was wise enough to refuse Reg's repeated offers to drive her home, so no serious harm was done. Later, when she had moved upstairs to another office in Newspaper House, Reg told her that his new secretary was much more 'cooperative'. 'I've made the office much more comfortable,' he said. 'I've brought in a blanket. We have wonderful lunchtime sessions.'48\n\nThe sensitive Joyce had intuited that her boss was not what he seemed.\n\nHe gave the impression of being a well-educated man. But now I come to think of it, he really was mysterious. I've worked in all kinds of jobs all over the world, and I've never worked for someone I knew so little about. Something murky about it.49\n\nGermaine could see that there was everything murky about it, and she felt an unaccustomed sympathy for her mother. 'He was a lounge lizard, a line shooter, a larrikin, a jerk.' The evidence, she thought, did not suggest that her father could have been considered officer material in the armed services.50\n\nGermaine delved deep into Reg Greer's military record, recalling that he always avoided talking about his wartime experiences. She thought that this may have been because he was ashamed of the anxiety neurosis that caused him to be invalided home after less than two years away. Unwillingly, for she did love her father, she also forced herself to consider the possibility that he had falsely exaggerated his symptoms to procure his discharge from the army. ('I am troubled by a nagging suspicion that the anxiety neurosis was a calculated performance. Reg Greer was not just a salesman, but a crack salesman.'51) As an Intelligence Officer attached to a Special Liaison Unit (SLU) he was never involved in armed combat, but the months he spent working long hours underground in the damp, ill-ventilated tunnels under the Lascaris Bastion during the siege of Malta must have been incredibly stressful.\n\nHis job was to listen intently for hours on end to a cacophony of radio signals and transcribe information using a 'Type X' machine, an adaptation of the German Enigma machine, the code of which had been finally broken by the British in 1940. Reg's work was an integral, though undervalued, component of the famed British intelligence operation 'Ultra'.\n\nThe unglamorous, underappreciated nature of cipher work would not have pleased Reg, but one aspect of it suited him perfectly: the secrecy. Germaine wondered if the army had tried to turn him into a 'deception person', or if they realised 'he was a deception person already'.\n\nEvery member of the Secret Service catches the disease. They all live as if the right hand was not to be trusted to know what the left hand is doing. Once the initial breach has been made in the self, once a man has learned to live a double life, it is a simple matter to live a treble or quadruple life. Did the boffins in Cairo discover that Daddy was a liar, a phony, fitted by temperament and experience to be a member of an SLU pretending to be something else?52\n\nGermaine had always known about her mother's wartime adultery \u2013 she had absorbed it with those knockout drops \u2013 but her father would be dead before she found out the full truth about him. In the meantime, mouths stayed shut as the Greer household soldiered on.\n\n'Do you know where you spent the night before you went to meet your father?' Germaine's aunt once asked her.\n\n'No,' Germaine replied, puzzled by the question.\n\n'With me,' replied her aunt, and waited for it to sink in.\n\n'All night?'\n\n'Your mother picked you up in the morning.'\n\n'I see.'53\n\n'I used to think,' wrote Germaine Greer in 1989, 'that truth was single and error legion, but I know now that none of us grasps more than a little splinter of the truth.'54 When she sought to expose the reality of what happened to her during her childhood and growing-up she knew that, despite her formidable intellect and academic training, she could tell only fragments of what actually happened. Her early life was about much more than the troubled relationship of her parents, her father's apparent rejection of her and her mother's guilt and frustrations. It was also about catching the bus to school, spending long sunny days on the beach, buying ice cream at the corner shop. Her sister's truth about their home life was different from hers, as was her brother's, but on looking back from the person she became to the young person she used to be, she chose her most vivid recollections to shape her narrative. To some, her frank disclosures about her parents are distasteful \u2013 'How could she write all those terrible things about her mother and father?' \u2013 but Germaine Greer has always insisted on trying to uncover those 'splinters of the truth' that lurk behind the illusions, comforts and mendacities of ordinary life, and to tell everyone about them. From challenging Sister Cyril to upending conventional views on just about everything, this is what she does. The only complication is that she, like her father, is also a creative performer \u2013 she wants to tell and present good stories \u2013 and we all know how truth can get in the way of those.\n2\n\nA difficult girl\n\nShe had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,\n\nThe quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind\n\nTo comprehend the universe\n\nLord Byron, Manfred\n\n'That was when the trouble started.'\n\nPeggy Greer was referring to the year 1956, when Germaine commenced her studies at the University of Melbourne. A year earlier, Reg had negotiated a war-service loan to finance a pretty Cape Cod\u2013style house in the bayside suburb of Mentone. As Peg saw it, the family had all it needed to fulfil the Australian Dream of the 1950s: parents still married to each other, a father who went off to a regular job in a city office every day, a mother who did not need to go out to work, one academically bright daughter who had won a university scholarship, and two younger siblings doing well at good schools. They would all bring friends home for coffee and have swimming parties at the beach.1\n\nBut seventeen-year-old Germaine, the source of the 'trouble', was determined to ruin her mother's party. Peggy recalled many anxious nights of lying awake, waiting for her older daughter to come home:\n\nReg would be full of beer, snoring upstairs. I was worrying about accidents. We were fighting. Reg'd wake up at night. She'd have come home with a boy and he'd discover her in a clinch . . .2\n\nAs the family sat at the breakfast table, Germaine's father would challenge her about her behaviour of the night before.\n\n'He'd bring it up at breakfast time. She'd come out with f . . . and c . . . and shit at the table. In front of the other children . . .3\n\nOn the surface, at least, the Greer household at Mentone in 1956 was not untypical of middle- and lower-middle-class Australian suburbia. Many families had their secret sorrows and most dealt with life as Peggy and Reg were attempting to do, by making life physically comfortable and establishing routines. Meanwhile, at university, Germaine was becoming part of a vibrant, exciting world that made her even more aware of the banality at home. She turned angrily on her parents, blaming them for their inadequacy, attacking them as only she knew how, through her shocking behaviour and use of violent language. They were no match for her. They became afraid of her.\n\nOn the basis of her matriculation results, which were among the highest in the state of Victoria, Germaine had won a secondary teaching studentship to study for a four-year Arts Honours degree at the University of Melbourne.4 This meant that she immediately became a 'permanent' employee of the Victorian Education Department on a salary (allowance) of \u00a38 a week. Her 'classification' was SIT (student in training), the first step on a potentially lifelong career ladder. Her record number, which, she was told, would be hers for life, was 50783.\n\nThe secondary studentships were generous to a degree unthinkable in the twenty-first century, but they came with strings attached. The department attempted to treat the SITs as true employees by requiring them to be 'on duty' at the university, even during part of vacation time, and imposing various petty bureaucratic demands like filling out forms for being late or absent from 'duty'. These requirements were all but impossible to enforce in a university environment, and most SITs tried to disregard them, as Germaine certainly did. Only one string could not be ignored. This was the bond, which required students, at the completion of their studies, to teach for three years in an Education Department school, which was often a hard-to-staff country school. The bond called for a guarantor, who was generally, as in Germaine's case, the student's father. If a student 'broke' the bond by failing to meet the teaching requirement, the guarantor would have to repay all costs of the student's salary and training \u2013 a significant amount. Most SITs baulked at the thought of placing this burden on their parents, but not Germaine.\n\nOne of the most significant effects of the studentships was to allow a very large number of bright young people from working- and lower-middle-class families to attend the university, which, apart from an influx of postwar ex-servicemen on rehabilitation programs, was traditionally the domain of privileged students from Melbourne's more exclusive private schools. Most of the SITs were the first in their families to go to university. Their parents were proud of them, but many were puzzled and concerned by their children's expanding horizons and, to them, alien attitudes: 'I want him to have a good education,' said one mother anxiously, 'but he keeps coming home with all these ideas!'5\n\nSome of the SITs' parents took comfort in the knowledge that their children were prot\u00e9g\u00e9s of the familiar Education Department, which had long been the employer of choice for clever working-class children who became primary school teachers after attending state owned and controlled teachers' colleges.6 To such people, the department was a venerable authority that respected family values and was immune to all the incomprehensible nonsense being spouted at the university.\n\nThat is probably why Peggy Greer appealed to the Education Department for help when Germaine became 'ungovernable' at home.\n\nI said: 'I've got this ungovernable uni student.' I told them she wasn't studying, got all this money and wasn't dependent on me, and didn't take any notice of what we said. I was ushered into a room and I said to the man: 'You give her this money and it's turning her into a tramp!'7\n\nThe department was not about to act, however, and there was no point in asking people at the university, because they were part of the problem. So seventeen-year-old Germaine's obscenity-filled rebellion continued apace.\n\nSome studentship holders were disconcerted by their first contact with privileged young people from families that were much wealthier and better educated than their own, but Germaine hardly noticed the petty snobberies and subtle class distinctions. She had been a scholarship girl at school and was proud of the fact. At Melbourne University, while she was happy to accept the money from the Education Department each fortnight, she gradually moved away from the future-teacher crowd. Her old school friends, many of whom were also on studentships, recall that she soon became to them a distant, revered figure.\n\nIn her earliest days at the university, Germaine was diffident, still seeing herself as a 'freak', embarrassed by her height, but this did not prevent her from making the most of her thespian talents. In May 1956 she starred as Aunt Sylvia, a depressed invalid turned Christian Scientist, in the Secondary Teachers' College production of No\u00ebl Coward's This Happy Breed. 'A natural comedy flair allied to a distinctive appearance, mark her as ideal for revue,' noted the reviewer of university productions in Farrago, the student publication of the University of Melbourne. In June, her performance as 'one of the ladies' who performed in the SRC (Student Representative Council) Revue Up an Atom was rated as 'promising'. The reviewers of this production criticised the behaviour of the actors, some of whom were drunk on the last night, created a disturbance in the foyer and had to be sobered up before they could go on stage.8 Germaine relished it all: she loved a good party, and socialising with the gifted and popular theatre crowd helped her to make friends among people in the trendiest cliques at the university.\n\nHoping to discover some intellectual underpinning for her lingering fondness for Catholicism, she attended some meetings of the university's Newman Society, but she was never one of those dedicated Catholic students who met daily at 1.15 pm to recite the rosary.9 The Irish Catholicism of Melbourne circa 1956 could not hope to contain her: as she gravitated to the more radical fringes of student life, she found herself drawn to socially prominent groups of Jewish students, with whom she felt such affinity that she started to identify as Jewish herself.\n\nAs the winter of her first year at university closed in, however, she began to suffer depression. Life in the Greer household was as miserable as ever and she grew to detest her daily train journey \u2013 sixteen stations from Mentone to the city. Suburban trains were unheated in those days; in peak hour, they were hideously overcrowded and the first- and second-class 'smoking' carriages were thick with cigarette smoke. Germaine developed a cough that turned into chronic, debilitating bronchitis. Her misery intensified when somebody stole her one overcoat while she was table-hopping in the Caf and she had to make do with an old Harris Tweed coat of her father's.10\n\nAs her first-year examinations approached, she was barely managing to stay in control of her life. One blustery day, in despair over a failing relationship with an actor she had fallen in love with, the seventeen-year-old almost fell to her death from the cliffs overlooking the sea near her home. Wearing her father's old coat, she had been following the cliff path, feeling deeply unhappy, when, on an impulse, ignoring all warning signs, she clambered under the restraining fences to position herself at the fragile cliff edge. Wildly, she stared out across the water. 'If you care for me, God, if you think my life is worth saving, you will not let me die!' she cried into the gale.\n\nGod's response was to cause the red sandstone beneath her feet to collapse, so that she started to fall rapidly down the cliff face towards the rocks and sea below. It was her father's coat that saved her, as it had caught on a protruding branch. For a few seconds she hung there, halfway down the cliff, until the branch too gave way and she continued to fall, but more slowly, to land on the shingle below. She sat for a moment until a stone that had been dislodged by her fall came down and hit her on the back of her head. So much for God, and her foolishness!\n\nNot long after that incident, she had a breakdown. 'In the last weeks of my first year at university,' she recalled later, 'it looked as if I might follow many a teenager into the twilight of tranquillisers and psychiatric wards,' but the danger passed and she recovered sufficiently to throw away the pills she had been prescribed and pass her first-year exams.\n\nDuring the long summer vacation, the situation at home became so intolerable that Germaine packed her bags and made her first attempt to leave. She took the train and tram to Carlton, where she was welcomed into the student digs of three male friends. Although she had rung her father to reassure him that she was safe, she found out that he and Peggy had reported her as a 'missing person'. So she went home. 'Who let all the flies in?' said her mother, as her prodigal daughter came through the door.11\n\nIn spite of showing an unashamed interest in sex, 'going out' with any number of young men, and becoming notorious for the suggestive obscenity of her language, Germaine Greer remained an unlikely virgin for quite some time after she started university: it was not until she discovered that the male students were calling her a cockteaser that she decided her virginity would have to go. The only question was who? There was no shortage of eager males who were prepared to do the necessary, but her deflowerer would have to be special.\n\nAfter careful consideration, her favour fell on a young Jewish man \u2013 the impossibly clever and handsome Leon Fink, a law student and head of the Jewish students' society at the university, who had been expressing interest in her defloration for some time. One starry night in April 1957, he and Germaine drove off in his Studebaker to Studley Park, Kew, where the task was accomplished on some blankets that had been carefully laid upon the grass for the purpose.12\n\nIn her second year at the university, in addition to an increasingly frenetic social life, frequent appearances in theatrical performances and managing to keep up academically, Germaine developed an interest in student politics. By this time, she was becoming an icon as well as a star. She took to dressing as a beatnik, wearing mainly black clothes, painting her eyelids black and putting henna through her hair. Contemporaries recall her dominating presence at lectures and tutorials, her tall figure dwarfing others around the campus, and her loud, exclamatory laughter as she moved around the Caf, obviously aware of the admiring glances that followed her as she paused at various tables to joke and chat with friends.\n\nWhen she stood, unsuccessfully, for the position of Women's General Representative in the 1957 SRC elections, her platform was equivocal: 'I do not believe in the equality of the sexes,' she proclaimed, 'but the superiority of women in those fields where their talents are of most value.'13 After her defeat, she continued to agitate for a hairdresser in the Student Union building, but her political activities were now less important to her than her growing involvement with members of the bohemian subculture loosely known as 'The Drift'.\n\nThe Drift's origins can be traced back to around 1930, when the economic historian Brian Fitzpatrick would go roistering in dirty pubs with a loud and convivial group of his friends, whom the writer Don Watson described thus:\n\n[They were] the city's unemployed and semi-employed writers and artists . . . there was no unanimity of political opinion but members of the group were uniformly left-wing with varying degrees of radicalism and romanticism.14\n\nBy 1957, the Swanston Family Hotel in central Melbourne had become the main gathering place for members of the Drift. These were the days when pubs stopped serving alcohol at six o'clock. At around 5.45 pm, the men (women were not allowed in public bars) would stagger to the counters to buy as many glasses of beer as they could carry before the taps were turned off. The tiled, easy-to-hose-down walls that can still be seen outside many of these old pubs are the only remaining evidence of the vomiting and urinating that happened when the drunken men were ejected, sometimes forcibly, after the six o'clock swill.\n\nBecause the men of the Drift liked to be with women, because the women of the Drift liked to drink, and because everyone was into defying convention, Drift gatherings were of mixed gender, but they necessarily took place in a room apart from the men-only public bar. (Not that the males-only rule bothered Germaine, who was known to flout it in pubs all over Carlton. 'Don't be ridiculous, child,' she was heard to tell one young student, an aspiring actress of small stature, as she pushed her into the bar of Naughton's Hotel.)\n\nBarry Humphries, who frequented the Swanston Family Hotel in the same period as Germaine, has described this hostelry as a 'picturesque public house . . . which reeked of cigarette smoke, yeast, urine and some unidentifiable disinfectant'. As a rising star of the Drift, Germaine must have felt that she had found her spiritual home. This was certainly Humphries' experience.\n\nThe noise was deafening, and as I stood in that packed throng of artists' models, academics, alkies, radio actors, poofs and ratbags, drinking large quantities of agonisingly cold beer, I felt as though my True Personality was coming into focus.15\n\nThey were called the Drift because after the beer was turned off everyone would fall into cars and 'drift' on to a restaurant or a party. 'There was no need to issue invitations,' Greer recalled many years later. 'If you gave a party on Friday night, you expected The Drift.'\n\nAt home in Mentone, her family problems grew steadily worse. The contrasts between the laissez faire Drift lifestyle and Peggy's fruitless efforts to maintain her version of a 'normal' home could not have been greater. Germaine blamed her mother.\n\nPeople think I talk about my mother with contempt. I don't feel contempt for her; I feel a sort of wonder at my mother's personality structure and a great fear, because I suffered intensely because of my mother's personality when I was a child, and I'm supposed to be grown up and have forgotten about it but it's very difficult to forget being terrorised when you were only two feet high.16\n\nLoyally, Peggy turned up to Germaine's early theatre performances, but she was an embarrassment: her appearance \u2013 dyed blonde hair, heavy make-up and high heels \u2013 contrasted strongly with her daughter's fashionable scruffiness. Germaine learned to be selective when choosing which boys to bring home, because her mother was quite likely to open the front door wearing underpants on her head (to protect her hairstyle) and little else, 'except the suntan for which so much was sacrificed'.17\n\nIn her second year at university, aged eighteen, Germaine left home for good ('the happiest day of my life'). She found work as a waitress in a popular cafe and fell deeply in love with a drummer from the cafe's resident band.\n\nI had managed to break through the whole Tall\/Freak\/Old Maid syndrome I had been born used to . . . The jazz drummer was five feet two. It was beautiful. All my insecurities crumbled. I was his woman and that gave me special status.18\n\nUsing her wages and tips from the waitressing job to supplement her fortnightly cheques from the Education Department, she found various types of accommodation, sometimes working as a housekeeper in exchange for lodging, often just sleeping on friends' couches. More than once, she told her Guardian readers thirty years later, she returned to one of her temporary homes to find her meagre belongings dumped outside the door and the locks changed.\n\nThe rift with her family became permanent: she stayed away and her parents made no attempt to contact her, even though, as she told television presenter Anthony Clare in 1989, it would have been easy enough for them to find out where she was living. One Christmas, feeling lonely, she took the train out to Mentone hoping to spend Christmas Day at 'home'. When she arrived, her mother began to scream hysterically and hid in a cupboard, claiming to be afraid of her daughter. 'I'm sorry, I can't ask you for Christmas dinner,' said her father. 'If I'm good will you come home?' cried her little brother. Germaine assured him that if he was the only person at home she would stay for the next fifty years. Then she walked off to the station to catch a Christmas Day train back to the city.19\n\nIn those days, mothers of Catholic girls dreamed that their daughters would marry 'suitable' ex-Xavier young men at snowy white weddings in the Xavier College Memorial Chapel. Germaine was not destined to marry an ex-Xavier boy, but she alleged that she had been raped by one. According to the accounts she has given of her ordeal, it happened at a party she attended with the three boys she was sharing a 'swanky flat' with at the time. As the party progressed, the alcohol flowed and the groping intensified. One young man, 'a strapping great rugby player bred up by the Jesuits to Catholicism and banking . . . just the kind of boy my mother would have wanted me to marry', kept pestering her to go outside with him. Despite her protestations that since everyone else was kissing inside the house in full view of each other, he and she should do the same, he persisted; so she accompanied him into the street and into his car, where he bashed and raped her.\n\nBack at the house, all the boys were sitting around the keg drinking beer. She claimed that they were too drunk to realise what had happened to her.\n\nI'd fucked a few guys by that time. Sometimes it was a mistake and sometimes it wasn't. But when it was a mistake it wasn't forced on me. I really felt as if someone had made me eat shit. I was certain that anyone who looked at me could tell what had happened to me. They could certainly tell that I was beaten up.20\n\nNo one at the party would take her home, so she flagged down a passing car and explained that she had been raped. Four days later, she was ironing towels at the flat when the rapist appeared at the door. 'Is this him?' her male friends asked, before taking him into the front room and conducting a sort of trial. Convicted as charged, he was banned from attending any more parties at the luxury seaside and ski resorts they all frequented. Never again would he hold up his head in Portsea or Mount Buffalo! Or so they said. Or, so Germaine says they said.\n\nDeflowered by a Jewish student politician, allegedly raped by an ex-Xavier boy, Germaine continued her iconoclastic trajectory through her university years. Prominent feminist Beatrice Faust, who knew Germaine well, had some concerns about her sexual behaviour.\n\nShe had the full convent syndrome: fucking like crazy, swearing, without being fully formed . . . The way she talked about sex was morbid. She could swear about it, but not talk about it.21\n\nRemarking on Faust's observations, Christine Wallace pointed to certain 'dichotomies' in Greer's personality \u2013 the Catholic girl who identified as Jewish, the bully who could be extraordinarily kind. Then came her tough bravado and vulnerable fragility, both of which could be apparent in her tone of voice and manner. 'Her voice betrayed the vulnerability,' said Faust, 'she had an over-loud, theatrical voice . . . she specialised in swearing in public, audibly across restaurants. When you got her normal voice on occasion it was like a little-girl voice sometimes saying vulnerable things.'22\n\nIn 2016, Greer appeared as a panellist on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation current affairs program Q&A. She chose to play the role of urbane elder statesperson, defending her questionable views on transgender issues so adroitly that none of the other panellists were brave enough to attack her. Only once, in a moment of wry self-deprecation, did she reveal anything substantial of herself: 'I'm not good at falling in love, let me tell you,' she said, contradicting a comment from a young co-panellist who suggested she was 'the voice of experience' on the subject. But then, at the very end of the program, when host Tony Jones asked her, with a respect that bordered on grovelling, if she would return later in the year and spend a full episode talking about Shakespeare, she lost her place in the venerable-guru script and was suddenly transformed, before the eyes of the watching multitudes, into a little girl. She did not say 'Oh yes! Goody! Goody!', but she might just as well have, as she grinned inanely at the camera, clapping her hands like a child for a couple of revealing seconds. The audience applauded indulgently and Jones wrapped up the program. 'I think we've got her! I think we've got her!' he proclaimed.23\n\nBut back to 1958. Another dichotomy was between Greer's extravagantly bohemian lifestyle and her developing brilliance as a serious scholar, especially in English literature. She was later to say that the teaching she experienced at Melbourne was the best of her life, better than Sydney or even Cambridge. The Professor of English Literature was Ian Maxwell, a gentle, erudite man of Scottish heritage who held generations of students spellbound with his famous recitals of the Scottish border ballads. One of his close friends in the department, Associate Professor of English Keith Macartney, cut an elegant figure around the university in his immaculately tailored clothes and highly polished shoes, a silk handkerchief protruding discreetly from a shirt-cuff.\n\nMacartney, founder of the university graduates' Tin Alley Players, was a driving force in drama at the university for more than two decades. In 1959, he directed Germaine in her performance as Mrs Antrobus in the Melbourne University Dramatic Society production of Thornton Wilder's The Skin of Our Teeth. He came to know Germaine quite well, but her extreme behaviour was a bit much, even for him. Of her lifestyle he once remarked, in his exaggerated Oxford English accent, 'It is most ir-reg-ular, isn't it?'24\n\nFrank Knopfelmacher, the notoriously right-wing psychology lecturer and political commentator, expressed an opposite viewpoint when he remarked wearily, 'Ah, Miss Greer, you are so unconventional in such a conventional way.'25\n\nOf Germaine's two main areas of study, French and English, the first was a disappointment, but she thrived in the English department, where the teaching was generally first class. Maxwell was a pluralist who encouraged variety both in the curriculum, which ranged from Chaucer and Spenser to Eliot, Joyce, Ezra Pound and Auden, and among the views and attitudes of those he chose to teach it. Despite some growing differences and occasional eruptions, the interactions among staff of the English department were disciplined and courteous.\n\nIn this atmosphere of academic excellence and liberality, two men of widely differing backgrounds and beliefs flourished. They were the poet Vincent Buckley and the contrarian Sam Goldberg.\n\nBuckley, whose ancestors were among the many Irish who sought their fortunes in Australia in the nineteenth century, had lived in England and worked at the University of Cambridge on the moral criticism of Matthew Arnold, F.R. Leavis and T.S. Eliot, but his heroes were the Irish poets and scholars, and in his own poetry he continually evoked his heritage.\n\nAt Melbourne, Buckley argued successfully, against some powerful opposition, for the work of Australian poets like A.D. Hope, Kenneth Slessor and Judith Wright to be included in the English literature curriculum. In 1958 he became the first Lockie Fellow in Creative Writing and Australian Literature. From 1967 he held a personal Chair in poetry.\n\nAs a leading figure in the Melbourne University branch of the Newman Society in these years, Buckley clashed with B.A. Santamaria, a fierce warrior against communism, who, with the Catholic Archbishop of Melbourne Daniel Mannix, provided an intellectual rationale for the anti-communist Democratic Labor Party. A committed Catholic, Buckley loathed Stalinism, but he had no stomach for the repressive anti-communist hysteria preached from the pulpits of Catholic churches \u2013 and in Catholic schools like Star of the Sea.\n\nPerhaps it was because Germaine's family, though Catholic, were not of Irish heritage (the Lafranks were of French and Italian descent), or perhaps it was because Sister Cyril's tirades against the Communist Menace so obviously defied rational belief, that she was not drawn to sit at Buckley's feet as so many of her similarly educated fellow students were. The greatest, perhaps the only, pity of this was that her personal canon of literary scholars and writers was English, not Australian: the subjects of her MA and PhD theses were, respectively, Byron and Shakespeare rather than Henry Lawson or Patrick White.\n\nIn keeping with her passion for the greats of English literature, Germaine chose the young and brilliant lecturer Sam Goldberg as her chief intellectual guide and mentor at Melbourne University. The charismatic Goldberg, who was known to have a difficult, confrontational and uncompromising personality, did not suffer fools, but that suited Germaine: despite her wariness of orthodoxies, she gravitated to the doctrine preached with furious enthusiasm by him and his disputatious followers. This doctrine was 'Leavisism', a highly disciplined form of literary criticism developed by the Cambridge scholar F.R. Leavis. Leavisism was elitist in that it permitted only the very 'best' of English literature into its canon: Shakespeare, Jane Austen, George Eliot, Joseph Conrad and T.S. Eliot were admitted after careful scrutiny, but even Dickens had question marks over him for a time. This elitism was founded on demanding and disciplined processes of critical inquiry and debate; it was also moralist, in that Leavis and his wife, Queenie, abhorred the 'crass' values of modern industrialist society and culture, and believed in the unique power of superior English literature to oppose and subvert those values.\n\nNovelist Howard Jacobson, who once, at the gates of Downing College, Cambridge, famously and fruitlessly attempted to engage a college porter called Tony in a deep literary conversation in the mistaken belief that he was speaking to the great F.R. Leavis himself, has explained the huge appeal of Leavis for his and Germaine Greer's generation of scholars.\n\n[I]t was his life's work to re-explore and redetermine that field \u2013 an effort, in his own words, 'that was formative and creative' \u2013 not merely to compile a list of great or necessary books (about that notion he was scathing) but as a living, changing continuum that made sense of the very concept of tradition, and more importantly still, of Englishness, not as a patriotic notion but as an achievement of the intelligence, of sensibility, and of language. The poems and novels were there before Leavis, but it took him to show us how they spoke to one another.26\n\nPoet, and old friend of Germaine, Chris Wallace-Crabbe has described the enduring influence of Leavis on Greer's work. 'Melbourne turned her into a moralist critic,' he said, 'into an anarchist with moral drive.' Christine Wallace concurred: 'The example of Leavis and the Leavisites' mode of analysis and operation formed the rock-solid foundation of Greer's lifelong ability to assert her positions as absolutely, incontestably correct,' she commented.27\n\nBy her final honours year, Germaine had established her own home in an old hayloft at the back of a Victorian terrace house on the corner of Barry and Grattan streets, directly opposite the university's main gates, for which she paid 15 shillings a week in rent. It had no real door: the only access was up a ladder to a trapdoor, and the only ventilation was from a sort of half-door that opened on to a tree. With the help of friends, she managed to haul an old iron stove up through the trapdoor. Apart from heating, the stove was used for two purposes. The first was to cook a large pot of stew which remained on its surface more or less permanently, feeding dozens of people as well as herself. No one caught anything nasty from its likely contamination \u2013 probably, she thought, because of the protective effects of the massive quantities of red wine that were generally consumed with it. She also used the stove to warm her feet, which she placed in the oven while contentedly sitting in her old chair and reading her books. Fuel was free, for she used the wooden blocks that were then being removed from the streets of Melbourne as they became macadamised. The blocks had become impregnated with tar, so they burned beautifully.28\n\nInvitations to Germaine Greer's loft were highly prized, for by now she was a celebrated figure at the university, as famous for her academic and thespian brilliance, reckless sexuality and capacity for drinking alcohol as for her fruity language.29\n\nEach Thursday morning Germaine attended an honours poetry seminar, where discussions among staff and students, heavily influenced by Sam Goldberg and his followers, would rage, often going beyond the set time. On Thursday evenings she would preside over an 'anti-seminar' in her loft, where the seminar students, but not staff, would gather to debate and construct arguments to challenge the positions taken by their teachers. Chris Wallace-Crabbe, who was a fellow student, has described these evenings as:\n\nA social gathering over flagons of wine, cheese, bread and kabana, in which the members of the Honours class re-discussed the morning's topic without the presence of the staff. This was an occasion of both release and intellectual development which generated great camaraderie.30\n\nTowards the end of her final year, however, Germaine began to realise that she was outgrowing both Melbourne University and the Drift. One evening, some new faces appeared at the Swanston Family Hotel. Among them was that of Kathy McMillan, a slim young woman from Sydney with hanging, dark brown hair. Like Germaine, she was dressed in black.\n\nGermaine later described herself as feeling 'wretched and beleaguered without really knowing it' at this time. Kathy was scathing of the Melbourne scene. 'You're a Sydney person,' she told Germaine. 'You're simply in the wrong place. Come to Sydney.'\n\nIn 1972 Greer told historian Ian Turner that she 'ran away' to Sydney in 1959 because she felt a lack of 'reasonable criticism' among Melbourne's bohemians. 'I was very much a rationalist and very much atheistic and not given to romanticism.' She was also becoming critical of a certain kind of elitism among some members of the Drift. 'I don't ever recall anybody arguing that censorship was wrong in any form, that the less elegantly expressed art form of the working class or the illiterate or the poor should have equal representation to the art forms of the Eltham inhabitants.'31\n\nThe people she met on her first visit to Sydney in 1959 convinced her that this was indeed the city where she belonged, but she did not make her final decision to live there until the end of the year, when she finished her degree. Her results \u2013 second class honours \u2013 were not bad, considering the many distractions she had enjoyed over the four years, but she was mortified, for this was the first and only time in her life she had failed to achieve top academic excellence. By that time she had several reasons for moving away from Melbourne. First, the obligations of her studentship loomed. She was still bonded to the Victorian Education Department, but she had no intention of burying herself in an isolated country school. As soon as she had finished her final exams she simply walked away with characteristic insouciance. 'Poor Reg,' said a family friend, 'she just took off without a care in the world and left him to pay back her bond.'32 Carefree as she may have been at the time, Germaine did pay her father back some ten years later when she was in a financial position to do so.\n\nThe second factor was that her hopes of an academic career had collapsed after her failure to gain a first at Melbourne. The final and most compelling reason was that she had fallen in love \u2013 partly with the seductive charm of Sydney's bohemia, but also with Roelof Smilde, a leader of the Sydney Push and its core group of libertarians and anarchists.\n\nThe Push was similar to Melbourne's Drift, but there were some important differences. As in the Drift, Push members congregated in the back rooms and ladies' lounges of grubby, beer-soaked pubs. They lived in rented rooms and flats, they dressed with extravagant carelessness, they disputed loudly and passionately, they flung four-letter words around in joyous defiance of the boring conventions of the boring decade in which they found themselves living. They also revelled in the sexual freedom they had managed to argue themselves into embracing.\n\nFrank Moorhouse pithily dismissed the activities of the Push as 'talking, drinking and fornicating'. Barry Humphries saw it as 'a fraternity of middle-class desperates, journalists, drop-out academics, gamblers and poets manqu\u00e9s, and their doxies'.33\n\nClive James was 'enchanted' when he discovered the Push gatherings at the Royal George hotel.\n\nIf you stuck your head through the door of the back room you came face to face with the Push. The noise, the smoke, and the heterogeneity of physiognomy were too much to take in. It looked like a cartoon on which Hogarth, Daumier and George Grosz had all worked together simultaneously, fighting for supremacy.34\n\nOn the sexual side of things, James was wryly cynical:\n\nEndorsing Pareto's analysis of sexual guilt as a repressive social mechanism, the Libertarians freely helped themselves to each other's girlfriends.35\n\nIn James's view, the 'girlfriends' existed outside the male circle of libertarians as a kind of separate commodity, like fruit waiting to be picked. The females of the Push saw it differently: having unrestricted sex with multiple sexual partners made them feel daringly independent, even powerful. However, the truth may have been closer to James's conception, for the women of the Push hardly seemed to notice that, as in the world outside their circle, it was the males who set the agendas, made the decisions, gave the papers and wrote the broadsheets. Male hobbies and interests dominated: going to the races, studying form guides, playing snooker and card games, gambling of all sorts. Push women listened, typed the men's papers and prepared the tea, as well as making themselves sexually available. This was Australia circa 1950s, and Push culture reflected that context more than any of its rebellious members realised.\n\nThe women apparently found it unremarkable that their professional appointments with Push doctor Rocky Meyers were much more frequent than those of the men. Similarly, they took in their stride their visits to the abortionist, Dr Crowe, in Elizabeth Street. Push men did not like to use condoms and, in those pre-pill days, abortion was the main method of contraception. When a woman became pregnant, the hat was passed around in the pub to collect the money required \u2013 about \u00a360 \u2013 for the operation, which was casually known as a 'scrape'. Sometimes a percentage of bets from a card game would be directed towards financing a woman's abortion. (Push men were serious gamblers, and some card games would continue over several days.)\n\nIt was with careless humour that Germaine's old friend Margaret Fink, nearly forty years after her adventures in the Push, told writer Anne Coombs about how she and three other female Push members, all teachers at Strathfield Girls High School, were 'up the duff' at the same time and how, at lunchtime, they had all rushed down the street to a public telephone to call Dr Crowe. 'He was hard to get on to. You always seemed to have to ring about eight times.'36\n\nThe Push women of the 1950s and early 1960s \u2013 even Germaine, who was probably the first female to challenge the men on their own terms \u2013 were no feminists. How could they be, when the second wave of feminism was yet to begin and the first wave seemed far in the past? The women got along well enough with each other and even formed lasting friendships, but competition for the best men was strong and the notion of sisterhood practically unheard of.\n\nBy 1975, Germaine Greer had become well aware of what she may have only dimly realised in 1959:\n\nWhile the Libertarians denied the right of anyone else to control the sexuality of anyone but himself [sic] thus challenging the basic unit of the family as described by Engels, they should not on that account be considered pro-feminist. Push men, even as they aged, continued to exploit their prestige, in selecting pretty young women for their preferred mates. They spoke of women in terms that would not seem out of place in a strip-tease club.37\n\nHer lover, Roelof Smilde, came to a similar realisation, but for him the process was longer and more painful. 'I think I've been kidding myself for years and years,' he said in an ABC Radio interview, 'that I've been treating women \u2013 in an intellectual and social sense \u2013 equally, but I don't think I did, and I think a lot of men in the Push [only] came to realise this through the impact of feminism. Bloody hard to do.'38\n\nOn the whole, the Sydney libertarians were not politically active. Many years later, Germaine Greer reflected that they did not engage with any of the major issues of the time. Like most Australians of that period, they were also blind to the plight of the Aboriginal population.\n\nI don't understand how we were so insensitive to the aborigine [sic] situation because we saw enough of them around the pub. There was a pub down the road from the Royal George where black prostitutes were regularly to be seen in various states of batteredness, various bandages and plaster casts around their person. Oh dear!39\n\nPush members' well-argued denial of the existence of fixed morality, was, however, the crucible for later action, mainly because it rendered all fields of personal conduct and social organisation wide open to question, thereby challenging the old 'certainties' of God, Queen and Country that were already starting to crumble.\n\nASIO certainly took the Push leaders seriously:\n\nAt first meeting with these people one is inclined to regard them as an offshoot of the 'beatniks', but after knowing them a short while it becomes obvious that they are well above the average 'beatnik' intellectually. Their knowledge of Marxism is surprising and their ability to discuss this subject on levels not encountered in the CPA [Communist Party of Australia] is both stimulating and educational.40\n\nOn joining the Push, Germaine was immediately drawn to the 'scrupulosity' of its arguments.\n\nWhen I first encountered the dingy back room of the Royal George, I was a clever, undisciplined, pedantic show-off . . . In the flabby intellectual atmosphere of the Melbourne Drift, I had been encouraged to refrain from ungainly insistence upon logic and the connection of ideas, to be instead witty, joking . . . In Sydney, I found myself driven back, again and again to basic premises, demonstrable facts. The scrupulosity that I had missed in my irreligious life was now a part of my everyday behaviour . . . If ever, of anyone, I desire a good report, I desire it of them, my guides, philosophers and friends, the Sydney Libertarians.41\n\nIt was the intellectual rigour of the libertarians' philosophy that most strongly appealed to Germaine Greer. The ideas of Marx, Wilhelm Reich and Freud were strong influences on her new friends' thinking, but their more immediate inspiration came from the academic John Anderson at Sydney University, where many of them had studied and some had chosen to drop out. Anderson, Challis Professor of Philosophy at Sydney from 1927 to 1958, was an oppositional realist who, over a lifetime of rigorous philosophical scholarship, argued powerfully against idealist-based notions of an absolute morality. This would probably have meant less to people who had never been schooled in such a morality than to those who, like Germaine, had been force-fed it throughout their childhood and adolescence. Utterly unacceptable to the moralists, but irresistible to the libertarians and anarchists, was the argument that universal moral 'truths' are no more than projections of the interests of particular groups, which are translated into 'thou shalts' and 'thou shalt nots'. Any authority, or so the argument goes, can justify its actions by an appeal to God, but, given multiple understandings of 'God', that in itself is proof that no God is there.\n\nThe spirit of the 1960s was stirring in the breasts of some Push members before that tumultuous decade had even begun, and already there were some exceptions to their rule of avoiding political activism. One example concerns two prisoners, Kevin John Simmonds and Leslie Alan Newcombe, who, in 1959, escaped from Emu Plains prison farm and killed a prison warder. Newcombe was soon recaptured, but Simmonds remained at large. Push members rather admired Simmonds for his clever way of operating (he was a car thief who used his car radio to monitor pursuing police, then, when they got too close, simply abandoned that car and stole another one).\n\nAfter several weeks at large, Simmonds was tracked to a swamp near Newcastle. Volunteers were called for, and hundreds of civilians turned out to hunt him down. This manhunt offended the sensibilities of the Push libertarians. Outraged at the thought of one frightened man being pursued by a posse of redneck vigilantes, they produced a poster, which read in part:\n\nWANTED\n\nBy . . . 500 fearless coppers\n\n300 righteous treasure-hunting civilians\n\narmed with submachine-guns, pistols and teargas-guns\n\nUsing fleets of cars with two-way radios\n\nA helicopter\n\nThe State Treasury\n\nAnd four bloodhounds . . . . . . .\n\nONE MAN\n\nFor defiance, courage, impertinence, enterprise\n\nTheft, audacity, endurance\n\nAlive or preferably\n\nDEAD\n\nLate one night the group went around the streets of Sydney and through some railway tunnels, putting up the posters under the cover of darkness.\n\nAccording to Anne Coombs, who recounted this incident in Sex and Anarchy, her history of the Push, Germaine Greer was said to be the driver of the getaway car. Appealing though this vision is, however, I realised that it could not be true, for Germaine did not get her drivers' licence until several years later, in England. And sure enough, when I discovered, in Greer's archive, her own annotated copy of Sex and Anarchy, I saw that she had written beside the relevant paragraph: 'She had never been behind the wheel of a car in her life.'\n\nMore satisfyingly, though, the annotation continued: 'Who does AC suppose WROTE the bloody thing?'42\n\nThose libertarians who congregated in the back room of the Royal George hotel in the 1950s formed a talented core who would be remembered into the next century, if only because, as Australian philosopher James Franklin has pointed out, some of them can lay claim to a role in bringing about the massive social changes of the 1960s, including and especially the sexual revolution.43 These changes were a worldwide phenomenon but Push members, including Germaine Greer, Clive James, Robert Hughes and Richard Neville, later travelled to cities like London and New York, and they took their ideas with them. 'Oh pooh!' declared one prominent former Push member in 2017. 'We were doing all those things long before they started in London. We invented them. We wondered what all the fuss was about. They learnt from us!' The same woman, when asked about contraception in those days, replied carelessly, 'Oh, easy! We just had abortions. I've had five.'44\n\nBut what of Roelof Smilde, he who was such a major reason for Germaine's move to Sydney in 1959? The son of Dutch immigrants, he has often been described as one of the four Princes of the Push, the others being Darcy Waters, Jim Baker and George Molnar. All were former students of John Anderson.\n\nSmilde and Waters were well-built and blond in a Germanic way that some would have described as 'Aryan'. As the two best-looking men they, together with Molnar and Baker, who were less beautiful but more intellectual, were at the apex of the hierarchy and therefore had the best choice of sexual partners. Women who were favoured with more or less regular sexual congress with these heroes enjoyed the highest status of the female Push members. This mirrored the situation in society at large, where good-looking and successful men were often partnered with attractive and gifted women. Even in the Push, thinking had not yet reached a point where it was conceivable that a woman might rise to high rank entirely on her own merits. On her arrival in Sydney, Germaine almost instantly became the top female in the group, partly because of her own brilliance, physical presence and flamboyant personality, but mainly because she was the favoured partner of Roelof Smilde, whom she loved for quite a long time.\n\nGermaine and Roelof met when she was holidaying in Sydney late in 1959, shortly before she finished her degree at Melbourne. After an intense conversation at a Greek cafe after pub closing time, Germaine asked Smilde if he would agree to her coming to live in Sydney. 'I was a little bit startled. It was an unusual request. I don't remember having said anything, but she must've had the impression I was attracted to her. I said yeah, it would be all right'.45\n\nIn Sex and Anarchy, Anne Coombs stated that Roelof was already in a relationship with Push member Roseanne Bonney when he first met Germaine, that Germaine 'supplanted Roseanne in Roelof's affections' and that the sexual jealousy between the two women continued into the 1980s.46 Greer scornfully disputed this claim. She had never considered Roseanne Bonney as serious competition, she remarked after reading Coombs's book, especially in relation to Roelof. 'I never took Roelof off Roseanne Bonney,' she declared hotly.47\n\nAt that time Roelof was working as a wharf lumper on Sydney's waterfront. He was also making a living from gambling at the racetrack, driving taxis and playing bridge, at which he excelled. One day early in 1960 he came home to the small terrace house in North Sydney that he shared with friends, to find Germaine on his doorstep. This was the period in which she had taken to emulating Chaucer's lusty Wyf of Bath by encasing her remarkably long and shapely legs in stockings 'of fyn scarlet reed'. He was impressed.\n\nRoelof and Germaine immediately became a relatively monogamous couple. They moved to a house in Glebe and settled into a kind of domesticity, but mainly they were the stars of the Push, carousing at the Royal George, arguing loudly and furiously, challenging convention, dancing, singing, having lots of fun and sex. For a while they were happy. So deeply did she love Roelof that, with typical thoroughness and determination, Germaine even attempted to share his devotion to the horses.\n\nSydney has three race-tracks and I served a very hard apprenticeship on all three. For one whole year I had to come to every metropolitan race meeting; I had to bet on one horse and one horse only. I had to lay a uniform stake of five shillings, which went up to ten shillings after a while. The idea was that I was being taught to make a living by gambling . . . I remember it was so boring that I could not bring myself to study the form.48\n\nOn Friday nights she would fall asleep over the form guide.\n\nHer use of the phrase 'had to' in the above passage is interesting: is it a mark of Germaine's submissiveness in the relationship? Surely not! But try as she might to please her lover, things were not working out. Was this because she and Roelof were over-intellectualising the relationship, as she later claimed? 'I have learned to regret the way I curbed the violence of my obsessive love for a particular Libertarian, so that it became manageable and reasonable and died altogether.' Or was it simply that, like so many women over the millennia, she loved a man who was not ready to make a commitment?\n\nShe found a lonely sort of comfort in Sydney's unique beauty:\n\nWhen I sometimes got miserable with the people I lived with or with the Royal George, I used to run away to where the footpath was torn up on the [Harbour] bridge and climb down into the rigging underneath it and sit waving my legs above the sea where the wind called the southerly buster blew away all the crossness and all the arguments.49\n\nGermaine may well have wanted to have a child by Roelof, but she knew that children were not welcome in Push circles. She also felt that she was not yet ready for motherhood. That feeling may be viewed as commonplace today, but this was the 1950s, when it was usual for women to marry and have children in their early twenties. Push women were hell-bent on escaping such stereotypes, as they asserted their right and even felt obligated to copulate freely, but they were still women of their time, victims of a kind of innocence. Their freedom came at a price, for there were no models of truly liberated women for them to emulate. They were ignorant of female biology, and they seem to have been unaware that their fertility would be compromised as their reproductive years drained away and their bodies suffered the effects of multiple abortions, sexually transmitted diseases and primitive forms of contraception.\n\nThe men did not have these problems: many of them later had children with younger women. Roelof, with a new partner, had two daughters in the 1970s. Marion Hallwood, a girlfriend of Roelof's before Germaine, had three abortions while she was with him. 'He said he never wanted children,' she told Anne Coombs. 'I never minded the abortions at the time, but years later, when he had those two children, I was so angry.' Marion never had children.50\n\nFor all Roelof Smilde's attractiveness and influence over Germaine, he was not the decision-maker in the relationship. In 1959 it was she who made the decision to live with him. Eighteen months later she decided to leave him.\n\nGermaine Greer made many friends in Sydney. Among them was the anarchist poet and Push luminary Harry Hooton, who died in 1961, aged 51. Hooton, who much admired Germaine in her red stockings, had a lasting influence on her development.\n\nWhen I last saw him he was dying, just a whisper of himself, but still enormous, the power of his soul filled the little room he lay in. And he called me to tell me he had great faith in me, that he thought I was the woman of the twenty-first century. I didn't know what he meant then, but I think a lot of the things I've done since I've done out of a desire to please Harry Hooton. Too late . . .51\n\nAt 44, Harry had fallen in love with flamboyant 19-year-old fellow Push member Margaret Elliott. They lived in a flat in Potts Point for several years until his death. She never forgot her first meeting with Germaine Greer. 'She just knocked on our door. I opened the door and here was this phenomenal creature! I'm five feet four and she's six foot. I couldn't believe my eyes! She filled the door frame. Fabulous hair! Just a splendid creature!'52\n\nElliott's love for Hooton did not preclude her from having various tempestuous affairs, including one with Barry Humphries, which continued into the years when Humphries was struggling with the early signs of his alcoholism, and creating his most famous character, Edna Everage. Elliott had more lovers after Harry's death, but eventually married and divorced Leon Fink, the very same clever, handsome Leon Fink who had deflowered Germaine on the grass at Studley Park, Kew, in 1957 and who later became a wealthy property developer.\n\nMargaret Fink was and is Germaine Greer's closest lifelong friend. As young, middle-aged and old women the two have continued to share, across continents, a zest for outrageous behaviour, a zany sense of humour and a raucous enjoyment of la dolce vita. Germaine was godmother to Margaret's children, and developed a particularly close relationship with her daughter, Hannah. On her regular visits to London, where the Finks stayed either at Claridge's or at Germaine's house, Margaret \u2013 Germaine's 'nice little Australian friend' \u2013 was welcomed into Greer's circle of literary and theatrical identities.\n\nIn Sydney, Margaret Fink was renowned for the fabulous parties she hosted in her luxurious harbour-side home, where many of the most brilliant and creative people of her generation gathered to enjoy fine food, champagne, butler service and, above all, each other's company. Some of them would stay on for days or weeks. 'Once, between houses, I lived with her,' recalled Max Lambert, Australian composer and musical director. 'For several mornings in a row I sleepily came downstairs and there was Barry Humphries, the next day Clive James, the third day Germaine Greer. I felt like I hadn't woken up, and was still dreaming . . .'53\n\n'Margaret had a dinner party one Friday night,' recalls publisher and editor Richard Walsh. 'I was working in Melbourne, aiming to catch a 7 pm flight to Sydney. By the time I arrived it was one of the most chaotic dinner parties imaginable. All kinds of shenanigans. Germaine was there with [her current Australian boyfriend]. They would come and go for a root. Like everyone. Everyone there was paired off. Everyone was pissed or stoned or off rooting. I just walked into it. It was emblematic of the era.'54\n\nIn 1980, journalist and author Jilly Cooper wrote in the Sunday Times about going to a party at Margaret Fink's 'vast Charles Addams pile festooned with creeper'. At first, she said, she thought she was at the wrong house, because of the loud music and roars of laughter that echoed all the way down the street. Inside, she found Margaret presiding over a large table, around which sat '[a]mazingly beautiful people, mostly media luminaries of a slightly indeterminate sexuality'. They were celebrating the birthday of Margaret's boyfriend's ex-boyfriend. (She was still married to Leon at this time, but they had an 'open' marriage.) Margaret was trying to persuade an actor named John to marry his current girlfriend, the actress Kate Fitzpatrick. 'I will organise the wedding,' she cried, 'I will even be a bridesmaid.'\n\n'At my wedding,' said John, looking at his girlfriend, 'you can both be bridesmaids.'\n\nCooper goes on to record that when Margaret once returned from a visit to Europe she was met by the distraught nanny, who confessed she had been to bed with Leon. 'Is that all,' said a relieved Margaret. 'For a dreadful moment I thought you were going to give your notice.'55\n\nFink, like many former Push members who later went on to distinguished careers, became famous in her own right. A celebrated film producer, her productions include The Removalists (1975), My Brilliant Career (1979), For Love Alone (1986), Edens Lost (1988, for TV), and Candy (2006).\n\nAfter she left Roelof, Germaine decided that there was a life for her beyond the beer-soaked delights of the Royal George. Because she was ambitious, because she loved to study, and because she had always felt at home in a university environment, she decided to enrol in a Master of Arts degree at Sydney University. This time she had no scholarship. And no money. Had she succeeded in her apprenticeship under Roelof as a professional gambler, she might have earned a living at the racetrack, but as it was she decided to finance her studies through the more conventional means of teaching at various Sydney high schools. By all accounts, including her own, she was a popular, conscientious school teacher in the two years it took to finish her thesis. But she did manage to get herself sacked from one school \u2013 a 'middle class ladies' school' \u2013 for distributing literature that gave two sides of the Hungarian uprising of 1956 and asking her students to examine both, compare them and check for bias. The school principal, whose ideas were closer to those of Sister Cyril at Star of the Sea than contemporary pedagogical thought and practice, accused her of disseminating propaganda. In vain Germaine protested that she was teaching the girls about propaganda.\n\n'Miss Greer, are you a Communist?'\n\n'No.' Useless to argue that a libertarian and anarchist could not be a communist, but she had to go. The parents had objected. It was a fee-paying school.56\n\nAt university, she was soon back in her element, starring regularly in student theatre and film productions, falling in and out of love, her six-foot figure once again iconic around the campus. But she was not about to risk another embarrassing second-class degree that would destroy forever her hopes of an academic career. She applied herself.\n\nShe chose Byron as the subject of her thesis. And why would she not? Forget Roelof Smilde and Leon Fink: George Gordon Byron, sixth Baron Byron, was the archetype of his own creation, the Byronic hero that Germaine had worshipped since her discovery of Steerforth when she first read David Copperfield at the age of eleven. Brooding, impossibly handsome, aloof, angry, intelligent, sensual, scorning convention in his determination to pursue his own versions of truth and justice, the Byronic hero is irresistible to women. Often, like Emily Bronte's Heathcliff, or F. Scott Fitzgerald's Gatsby, he has been abused or deprived in childhood: he needs to be mothered and consoled in his rare moments of weakness. And persevered with, as he sorts out his tortured personality. 'Mad, bad and dangerous to know', the Byronic hero takes his pleasure with women as he finds it: he loves and leaves them on his terms.\n\nThe most attractive men of the Push were Byronic heroes of a sort, but it was Germaine herself who came closest to the ideal. She and Byron had much in common. Byron's appearances in London society \u2013 the handsome seducer stalking majestically through the glittering drawing rooms of Regency London, as described by his biographer Phyllis Grosskurth \u2013 are reminiscent of fellow students' descriptions of Germaine striding around the Melbourne University campus in her flowing cloak. Germaine was seducer as well as seduced; her ready wit, awareness of irony and, above all, her towering intellect, all matched Byron's. Like him, she was a star of her generation, like him she was her own theatrical production.\n\nHad Germaine Greer been Byron's contemporary, it could have been of her he was thinking when he wrote:\n\nShe was like me in lineaments \u2013- her eyes\n\nHer hair, her features, all, to the very tone\n\nEven of her voice, they said were like to mine;\n\nBut soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;\n\nShe had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,\n\nThe quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind\n\nTo comprehend the universe57\n\nA mind to comprehend the universe! Little wonder that Germaine was in love with Byron, and that her emotions enhanced her critical judgement of his worth as a poet. But while she quoted him devotedly, and even carried a notebook called 'Byrony' close to her heart, she was shrewdly aware that, in order to achieve the first class honours on which her future career depended, she would have to produce a work of solid critical scholarship that would meet the stringent criteria of some very tough examiners. Schooled as she was in the rigorous Leavisite tradition of her apprenticeship at Melbourne University, she worked solidly, researching meticulously, finding and documenting a multitude of sources, writing with discipline, flair and wit to produce her thesis, 'The Development of Byron's Satiric Mode'.\n\nThe only problem for anyone considering this thesis as part of her later body of work \u2013 and it was obviously not a problem for her or her teachers and examiners \u2013 was that very little in the way of feminist consciousness was to be found in her thesis. Greer's focus, in line with the title of her dissertation, was on the irony and satire in Byron's depictions of his heroes' treatment of women, not on their often contemptuous attitudes towards them. Details of his own life, like his brutal treatment of his wife and mistresses, likely incestuous relationship with his sister and habit of sending his gondolieri to buy women and bargain with parents of young girls for their daughters' sexual services, went unremarked.\n\nMost committed feminists would have deplored lines like:\n\nShe, in sooth,\n\nPossess'd an air and grace by no means common:\n\nHer stature tall \u2013 I hate a dumpy woman.58\n\nGermaine would have laughed.\n\nShe received first class honours for her MA thesis. When Sam Goldberg arrived at Sydney in 1963 to take up the Challis Chair of English Literature, she accepted his offer of a senior tutorship. Her academic career was at last on track.\n\nProfessor Stephen Knight, now of the University of Melbourne, has good memories of the 25-year-old Miss Greer as a colleague and fellow tutor in 1964. Not long arrived in Sydney from England, and still not sure that he would ever adapt to the casual Australian university culture, Knight was grateful for Germaine's friendship. In 2016, he recalled that in her room, which was next to his in the Carslaw Building, she had a fish tank that was occupied by two goldfish. He would hear her clear voice through the thin walls as she conducted her tutorials.\n\n'What are the names of the fish?'\n\nPuzzled silence.\n\n'Correct answer: Form and Content. You can't tell the difference, can you?'\n\nThus, unforgettably, said Knight, Greer explained a feature of Leavisite criticism to her students, using the well-tried teaching method of illustrating important points with imaginative resources. The young Englishman was impressed. He would later say: 'She was undoubtedly an excellent teacher. And one of the best lecturers \u2013 one of the few who could command the Wallace lecture theatre, with its six hundred students. She had a kind of histrionic quality which was quite remarkable, added to her real scholarship.'\n\nKnight remembers her as a popular and interesting member of the English staff. 'She was very tall. You certainly knew when she entered the tea room. She seemed to command the room at once. Everyone would cheer up when Germaine came in.'\n\nKnight particularly recalled Germaine's kindness and willingness to help others. 'There was one young chap from Oxford looking for accommodation in Sydney \u2013 Michael Wilding \u2013 Germaine was very patient with him, took him around all over the place looking for somewhere to live.'\n\nOne conversation, overheard in the tea room, has remained in his mind for the last fifty years.\n\n'Where are you off to this afternoon, Germaine?' inquired a senior staff member.\n\n'I'm going to the races. Can you lend me twenty quid?'59\n\nThis was the period when Professor Sam Goldberg was furiously recruiting Leavisites, some from Melbourne, to advance his mission to revolutionise the study of English literature at Sydney. Having inspired Germaine, he would have been glad to have her continued support, but he could see that her brilliance would take her far beyond Sydney and that it would be wrong of him to hold her back. So, instead of persuading her to stay, he generously encouraged her to accept the Commonwealth Scholarship she had won to study at the University of Cambridge.\n3\n\nChanging skies\n\nCaelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.\n\nThey change their sky but not their soul, who rush across the sea.\n\nHorace, 65 BC\u20138 BC\n\nBefore World War II, opportunities for overseas travel were generally limited to the wealthier classes of Australian society. For most white Australians, setting off on one of the great 'mailboats' that were almost their only physical connection with their cultural heritage was a dream not often realised. The rest of the world \u2013 the real world of their language and culture \u2013 was a long, long way away.\n\nYet many people still thought of the countries of their recent ancestors, especially England, as 'home'. Australian girls like Germaine Greer were brought up on a literary fare of English storybooks and poetry replete with village squires, jolly boarding schools, meadows and stiles. At school, they were taught British and European history; they drew maps of the British Isles in their copybooks, and they absorbed the values of the Empire, values that were only starting to become reconceptualised as those of 'The British Commonwealth of Nations'.\n\nWhat does it mean to grow up in a land of droughts and flooding rains and endless suburbs while your head is filled with visions of the Tower of London and leafy reaches of the Thames? In 1989, Germaine Greer, in her column for The Independent magazine, reflected on that experience.\n\nThirty-five years ago, in Australia, I learnt by heart Browning's poem 'Home thoughts from abroad'. I had no idea where abroad was. I was in it. I did not think of England as home, rather as the centre. I lived somewhere on an outer edge of a geographical suburbia called The Commonwealth. My head was stuffed with Englishness. I knew more about hedgehogs and squirrels than I did about echidnas and possums.1\n\nHaving her head 'stuffed with Englishness' also caused the young Germaine Greer to develop an enduring love of English and European literature, and an uncomfortable feeling that her own country could never fully nourish and sustain her. She had a point: culturally, the Australia she left in 1964 was changing but it was still, as Ian Britain described it in 1997, 'too circumscribed a stage to contain such a high-octane performer as herself'.2\n\nShe was not alone; other young Australians felt the same, and the times were right for them. In the 1960s, as fares to England became cheaper, jobs abounded and wages improved, the ships that carried thousands of immigrants to a new life in a new land did not return empty but instead were filled with the youth of Australia, in search of adventure. To London they went, and if it was not quite the London of their storybooks, and if the Londoners treated them with a kind of amused contempt, they cared little. They lived in Earls Court bedsitters, got drunk at the Down Under club and worked as secretaries, nurses, teachers, labourers, whatever they could find, until the summer, when they set off in their campervans to discover Europe. They were seeking home, but most of them would have to go back to Australia to find it.\n\nBy the time she arrived in England, Germaine had already eclipsed the great majority of these young Australian expats. Her first experiences in England were not of Earls Court but of Cambridge. As the winner of a Commonwealth Scholarship, she had achieved not only academic success, but instant access to a world of privilege.\n\nHaving chosen Cambridge over Oxford, largely because her beloved Lord Byron had studied there, Germaine moved in to rooms on the first floor of a comfortable Newnham College hostel, with a diamond-leadlight casement window through which Clive James would eventually effect entry. As an 'affiliated student' she was expected to study for the Tripos, a bachelor's degree that normally took three years but which scholarship holders like herself were permitted to complete in two. The underlying assumption of this requirement was that Australian degrees were inferior versions of the Oxbridge models they tried to copy. At first Germaine agreed with this judgement, but as soon as she hit her straps she changed her mind. 'I thought [the degree] I had probably wasn't good enough,' she later recalled.\n\nI was completely wrong. Cambridge offered an inferior version of the same thing. After the first term, I realised they were not going to teach me anything so I transferred to the PhD programme.3\n\nClive James, who also won a scholarship to Cambridge, later declared that it was 'by force of argument' that Germaine had got herself registered as a PhD student. Maybe there was a trace of envy on his part, for after only a few months in England she had streaked ahead not only of most of her young compatriots who were enjoying themselves in London, but of other Commonwealth Scholarship holders as well, including himself. Academically, she was a compulsive high-achiever: he was not. The university library, he said, 'swallowed her up . . . like a tomb'. Fiercely resenting any interruptions to her work, she filled her rooms with books and settled down to unremitting study. She managed to make time for some other pursuits, like acting, but if James is to be believed, study came first. Or perhaps she was just making excuses for not wanting to go to bed with him.\n\n'I didn't ever sleep with Clive James,' she told an interviewer in 2000:\n\nThat was the whole point, I never fancied him. I said about him a long time ago that Clive was a very witty man, but not sexy. I said it to his face. I was doing this talk show and I said, 'The thing about you, Clive, is that you're very witty and very interesting, but you're just not sexy.' And he said 'I know.'4\n\nAcademically, and socially, university life for female students was improving by the time Germaine arrived at Cambridge in 1964, but there were still traces of the discrimination women had suffered for most of the first half of the twentieth century. They were not formally permitted to graduate until 1948, social interaction between students in the segregated male and female colleges was discouraged, and some lectures were closed to women. 'Women were lacking from our lives,' Nigel Nicolson wrote of Oxford in the 1930s. 'We knew that they existed somewhere in the outer suburbs linked somewhere to our great monastery, but we never met them.'5\n\nBy the mid-1960s, however, women were starting to become more visible around the university and some of them were occupying positions of influence. The two Cambridge dons who guided Greer's study at this time were Professor Muriel Bradbrook and Dr Anne Righter. As powerful, successful women who had defied every limitation imposed on them, they also by example strongly influenced her later feminist thinking. Bradbrook, 55 years old when Germaine arrived at Cambridge, had studied for her first degree at Cambridge in 1930 but, being a woman, was not permitted to graduate: she received her certificate, onto which the word 'titular' had been inserted by hand, in the mail. She sat through the daytime lectures of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, who addressed his audience as 'Gentlemen', but was not permitted to attend his evening lectures on Aristotle's Poetics, because they were closed to women. Later she studied under F.R. Leavis, wrote several influential books, travelled widely and established herself as an eminent Shakespearean scholar. Awarded a Chair at Cambridge in 1965, she was the first female Professor of English in the university's long history. Bradbrook led the Renaissance seminars that had a profound effect on Germaine's thinking, and it was she who persuaded Germaine to choose Shakespeare as the subject of her thesis.\n\nAnne Righter was an American scholar, six years older than Germaine, who later became a professor under the name of her second husband, the theatre director John Barton (co-founder, with Sir Peter Hall, of the Royal Shakespeare Company). After graduating summa cum laude from Bryn Mawr College in the United States, Righter was awarded her doctorate at Cambridge in 1960. Published as Shakespeare and the Idea of the Play in 1962, her thesis was supervised by Muriel Bradbrook. In 1974, Righter (then Barton) became the first female fellow of New College, Oxford. She and Germaine formed a lasting friendship.\n\nWhile Germaine Greer's affection and admiration for both Muriel Bradbrook and Anne Righter are beyond question, she was dismissive of that breed of older (but still called 'New') academic women, belonging to the earlier wave of feminism, to which both of her mentors were connected. The stereotypical old New Women, she wrote in an unpublished draft of the 'Summary' to The Female Eunuch, had rejected their femininity; they dressed like men and 'eschewed' the company of women.\n\nThe heavy-footed tweed-clad New Women who presided over my college were too inefficient, too crabby, too joyless, to serve as ushers into a new wave of life. They were so consciously elitist that most 'silly' girls felt they were better off left outside their charmed circle. Most 'normal' girls hastily denied any interest in liberty which in those days was called 'emancipation'.6\n\nWhen dining in college, Germaine was struck by the contrasts between the 'sour faces and shapeless bodies' of the female dons who sat with the principal at the high table, and the pretty young women who sat with her at the students' tables \u2013 the 'Jennys and Valeries and Lindas and Sues \u2013 very dull girls indeed', whose conversation was 'as vapid and girlish as you might expect at lunchtime in Selfridges Canteen'.7\n\nWhat did those girls have to look forward to if they wanted to escape the world of the desiccated old New Women? To become a faculty wife, perhaps? But even this door seemed closed to them: at faculty parties Germaine noted that most of the male dons seemed to have married 'decorative and tranquil women who could scarcely speak English'. And Cambridge men continued to choose debutantes from London as their trophy partners for the May Balls.8\n\nIt would be only a few years before Germaine Greer and other feminists of the second wave would offer new models and alternatives for the Jennys and Valeries and Lindas and Sues, but in the meantime Professor Bradbrook and her colleagues had to be tough as they continued to battle against discrimination in academic life.\n\nNor was it easy for male and female students to break free of the gender-based restrictions imposed by hundreds of years of custom and tradition. Things had improved since 1938 but, like Nigel Nicolson and others before him, Clive James bemoaned the paucity of female company in clubs and societies around the university. He feared that the university library may have absorbed most of the women as it had 'swallowed up' Germaine, since there seemed to be so few of them about. 'The relative absence of a civilising female influence made it all the easier,' he said, 'to get disgustingly drunk.'9\n\nJames, who had known Germaine at the University of Sydney and in the Push, was delighted to rediscover her at the Cambridge University Footlights Dramatic Club. They met at an audition for the first of two 'smoking concerts', known as 'smokers', that were given by the club each term. The results of these auditions were the basis upon which candidates were selected for Footlights membership, but no female had ever been admitted to the club in its long history. Even Germaine, on this occasion, was doubtful that she would succeed.\n\nThe venue for the audition was the club room above the MacFisheries fish shop in Falcon Yard. As James tells the story, he was wearing a rented dinner suit and Germaine a satin dress she had modified herself to contain her generous bosom. (James noted that 'she was always a dab hand at the household tasks against which she later rebelled on behalf of all women-kind'.) The smell of halibut wafted through the floorboards as the two performed a sketch in which James, as No\u00ebl Coward with a Chips Rafferty accent, played opposite Germaine's Gertrude Lawrence. 'I was awful, she was great,' said James, 'so we both got in.'10\n\nEric Idle, the club president, was delighted that his long-cherished plan to admit women to the club had been realised, but others were not happy.\n\nUp until then, women could appear in Footlights revues only as guests, and most of the dons who congregated around the club's small but thriving bar made it piercingly clear that they had preferred the era of good, straightforward transvestism, with properly shaved legs and no nonsense about it.11\n\nGermaine was as unimpressed by those dons as they were by her. 'This place is jumping with freckle-punchers,' she told James in broad Australian. 'You can have it on your own.' Nevertheless, the two went on to perform in many a Footlights revue. Particularly popular was Germaine's nun-striptease routine in which, dressed as a Carmelite nun in a costume she had run up herself, she stripped to a brief bikini.\n\nThe 1960s marked a stellar period in the Footlights club's history. Its membership included John Cleese, Peter Cook, Eric Idle and David Frost. Julian Fellowes, Charles Mountbatten-Windsor, Kevin McCloud and Stephen Fry came later. Women were noticeably absent from the membership lists in the first half of the century, but this changed after Germaine was admitted. The name of Miriam Margolyes, who is two years younger than Greer, appeared on the lists shortly after Greer's. Other female names followed. Most of the better-known members up to the present time have gone on to careers in film, comedy, drama and broadcasting, but there are also journalists, politicians, diplomats and Peers of the Realm.\n\nClive from Kogarah and Germaine from Mentone were in fine company, but there were big differences in their attitudes to study. In the present vernacular you might say she was 'focused' while he was not. This was brought home to him when he moved into a room in the ancient, half-timbered Friar House in Bene't Street and discovered that he would have to suffer not only the smell of curry from the Pakistani restaurant on the ground floor, but also the Neighbour from Hell, his old friend from the Antipodes, in the room next door.\n\nGermaine had also chosen to move to Friar House because of its quaint atmosphere and cheap rent.\n\nIn something less than a week, [Germaine], who in another time and place might have run the sort of salon that Goethe and the boys would have swarmed around like blowflies, had already transformed her room into a dream from the Arabian nights. Drawing on her incongruous but irrepressible skills as a housewife, she had tatted lengths of batik, draped bolts of brocade, swathed silk, swagged satin . . . Aristotle Onassis had married Jackie Kennedy in vain hopes of getting his yacht to look like that.12\n\nBut Germaine had created her bower for a more serious purpose.\n\nShe had a typewriter the size of a printing press. Instantly she was at it, ten hours a day. Through the lath-and-plaster wall I could hear her attacking the typewriter as if she had a contract, with penalty clauses, for testing it to destruction.13\n\nShe loved to study and she loved to excel, she was determined to forge a career in academic life, but her relentless determination to do well at Cambridge had an additional motive: she did not want to go home to Australia. All Commonwealth Scholarship holders knew that at the end of their studies they would be expected to return to their native countries to become flag-bearers of British learning, values and culture; for the generosity of their Commonwealth benefactors was grounded in the fading but stubbornly enduring ideals of Empire-building. The students also knew, however, that the best of them would be allowed to stay and make their careers in England with its great universities, libraries, museums, galleries and easy access to Europe. Their passports still declared them to be British subjects, and they saw no disloyalty in remaining at the 'centre' of the Commonwealth rather than at its culturally impoverished periphery. Germaine knew she was among the best of the scholarship holders, and it was almost a corollary to being the best that she should be permitted to remain where she was.\n\nThe title of her PhD thesis was 'The Ethic of Love and Marriage in Shakespeare's Early Comedies'. Her stated intention was to 'explore the relationships of lovers in a way that cannot be explained by reference to established convention'. This was breaking new ground, especially important in the field of Shakespearean studies, where so much had already been written that scholars found it difficult to discover new areas to explore.\n\nIn a response to a query from the University of Melbourne Archives in 2015, Greer said that the seven research notebooks she had written in 1965, and which are now housed in the Germaine Greer Archive at the university, were 'possibly more interesting' than the thesis typescript itself. Unlike most scholars, who did not have the language skills to read the European plays of this tradition in their original French, German, Italian, Latin or Spanish, she considered herself sufficiently fluent in those languages to argue that Shakespeare was not imitating a continental tradition. This, she said in 2015, was the main point of her research. Each notebook has a name that corresponds to the places she worked in, e.g. the Bodleian at Oxford, the British Museum, the Marciana in Venice. Notes are written mostly in English, but also in French, Latin and Italian.\n\nThe Shakespeare sections of Greer's research notes do not make easy reading, as University of Melbourne archivist Rachel Buchanan found when curating the Greer collection in 2016. After prising out dozens of rusting staples from ripped, fragile papers, staining her fingers in the process as the staples fell apart in her hands, Buchanan initially found the material daunting and not of great interest to a modern scholar like herself.\n\n[H]ere I was wading through dozens of folders of notes about 16th and 17th-century men who wrote plays, poems, sermons and pamphlets: Shakespeare; Lyly; Browne; Sidney; Spenser; Nashe; Jonson; Webster; Dryden; Donne; Sir John Davies; Samuel Daniel; Butler.\n\nOnce I had got through the individual blokes, there were many more folders about Renaissance literature, Jacobean drama and, of course, William Shakespeare's early comedies . . .14\n\nShe was moved by the evidence of Greer's scholarship, but wondered:\n\naside from a future biographer, what sort of researcher would ever want to look at these bits of old paper? . . . The records appeared absolutely academic, in the most disparaging popular definition of that much abused word. Where was the Greer liberation, feminism, fire?15\n\nBuchanan found an answer to this question when she asked herself another one: 'What happens if you read The Female Eunuch not for evidence of feminism but for evidence of Shakespeare?' Taking up her 2006 Harper Perennial Modern Classics paperback edition of Greer's book, she discovered that many of the names she had been cataloguing from Greer's PhD research notebooks also appeared in the text and footnotes of The Female Eunuch.\n\nHalf of the references in the Sex sub-section are Renaissance-era writers. Ditto for The Stereotype. Most of the sources cited in The Ideal are at least 400 years old: Shakespeare, Spenser, Sidney, Daniel, Wyatt, Nashe, anonymous Elizabethan ballads, they are all named in a couple of dense pages in the sub-section The Middle-Class Myth of Love and Marriage.16\n\nNineteen years earlier, Christine Wallace, who did not have the advantage of access to the Greer archive, had noticed that parts of the 'Middle-Class Myth of Love and Marriage' chapter of The Female Eunuch looked 'suspiciously like off-cuts from her doctoral thesis'. There was far more of Shakespeare and the Renaissance in the chapter, she said, than of modern matrimony and Mills & Boon.17\n\nAnd there, perhaps, is the secret, or one of them, of The Female Eunuch's success. Feminist writers until that time had sourced most of their material from contemporary or comparatively recent accounts of women's struggle for independence. Greer approached the subject from another angle, that of her work as a humanist scholar. An essential requirement of her study for the PhD was to learn about the rich, centuries-old literature about humankind's experiences of love and marriage \u2013 the stories, the plays, the folklore, the characters \u2013 that would inform not only her thesis, but also her later writing. This was the labour for which she was 'swallowed up' in libraries in England and Europe, and which fed the clattering typewriter that drove Clive James to distraction.\n\nAll of this is to say that, as Buchanan correctly stated and Wallace suspected, Greer's PhD studies substantially influenced her later writing as a feminist. But what happens if we turn the question around to inquire what evidence of feminist thinking is to be found in her thesis? The plays she chose to write about were The Two Gentlemen of Verona, The Comedy of Errors, The Taming of the Shrew and Love's Labour Lost. Of most interest with regard to feminism is her treatment of The Taming of the Shrew.\n\nShakespeare adapted the central ideas of this play from various folktales dealing with the notion of the shrewish woman, the 'scold', often punished by the cruel scold's bridle, who talks too much and too loudly, is a scourge to her menfolk and must be tortured until she either submits or is burned as a witch. The play's characters are Katharine (Kate), the elder daughter of Baptista, a wealthy merchant of Padua, and Petruchio, who is prepared to marry Kate, sight unseen, because of her father's wealth. This is a commercial transaction. Kate, the shrew, is embarrassing her family by her rebellious spirit and ungovernable tongue. Her younger sister, the sweet and generous Bianca, has fallen in love with Lucentio, a student who is of good family, but custom decrees that she cannot be courted by him until her difficult older sister has found a husband. So everyone but Kate is relieved and delighted when the dashing Petruchio persuades Baptista to agree to the marriage, which is to take place almost immediately.\n\nPetruchio arrives late to the wedding. He is wearing a strange assortment of old clothes and is mounted on a broken-down horse \u2013 all calculated to insult Kate. Already he is turning out to be something of a Byronic hero who puzzles and intrigues her as he rides roughshod over her protestations. Refusing to attend the marriage feast, or to allow his new wife to attend, he carries her off through the mud to his country house, having told everyone that she is now his property and he can do what he likes with her.\n\nShe is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,\n\nMy household stuff, my field, my barn,\n\nMy horse, my ox, my ass, my anything . . .18\n\nIn their new home at Verona, Petruchio teases Kate unmercifully, denying her food and clothing, declaring mockingly that nothing is good enough for her \u2013 the meat is not cooked properly, a stylish new hat is not fashionable, beautiful clothes do not fit properly. He disagrees with everything she says and forces her to agree with whatever he says, no matter how absurd. Gradually, cold, tired and hungry, Kate gives in.\n\nIn the meantime, Bianca has married Lucentio, and Hortensio, friend of Petruchio, has married a rich widow. At a banquet to celebrate Hortensio's marriage, the three new husbands stage a contest to see which of their wives will come to them first when summoned. Everyone expects the sweet Bianca to be the first to obey, but to general astonishment, it is the tamed Katharine who, to demonstrate her submission to her husband, declares herself willing to place her hand beneath his foot, declaring:\n\nThy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,\n\nThy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,\n\nAnd for thy maintenance commits his body\n\nTo painful labour both by sea and land\n\nTo watch the night in storms, the day in cold,\n\nWhilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe . . .19\n\nAnd so on, in the same vein, announcing that she is ashamed for her sex of women who disobey their husbands They 'are bound to serve, love and obey,' she simpers.\n\nPetruchio, having won the bet, is delighted: 'Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me Kate!' he exclaims joyfully. And off they go to bed.\n\nIn the years between 1594 (the approximate date of the play's first appearance) and 1967, when Germaine completed her thesis, many critics struggled with The Taming of the Shrew's apparent misogyny. One reading has it that the play is sincere \u2013 Petruchio rightly and successfully tamed Katharine; another sees it as a farce, and yet another suggests that he has simply fallen in love with her and she with him in a meeting of minds and bodies. A popular twentieth-century interpretation was that Katharine's submission was faked. In a 1929 film version, the actress Mary Pickford as Kate winks at Bianca as a sign she does not mean a word of what she is saying. Elizabeth Taylor, playing opposite Richard Burton (now there's a Byronic hero!) in Zeffirelli's 1967 film, delivers the final speech then sweeps out, leaving Petruchio looking foolish in front of the wedding guests.\n\nOn 8 June 1888, Bernard Shaw wrote what may have been the first strong feminist criticism of the play in a letter to the Pall Mall Gazette, where he declared the play to be 'one vile insult to womanhood and manhood from the first word to the last'.20 Later scholars have created more nuanced interpretations, taking into account the context of the social changes of the Renaissance period. Emily Detmer, a feminist Renaissance scholar, locates the play within a contemporary public discourse about using new methods to control women that were starting to replace crude wife-beating, especially in more cultivated society. 'Gentlemen' like Petruchio thought it beneath them to physically abuse women. Detmer suggests that:\n\nShakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew acts as a comedic roadmap for reconfiguring these emergent modes of 'skilful' and civilised dominance for gentlemen, that is, for subordinating a wife without resorting to the 'common' man's brute strength.21\n\nDetmer goes on to describe Kate's surrender to Petruchio as 'something other than consensual, as, in fact, a typical response to abuse'. Substituting psychological torture for physical mistreatment, she argues, does not alter the central fact that a woman is being abused: it is no more than an insidious change of method, which may even 'work better' in achieving the old, despicable aim of female subjugation to the male.22\n\nIn recognising Germaine Greer as probably the best-known feminist of the twentieth century, and a Shakespearean\u2013Renaissance specialist scholar to boot, one might have expected that her discussion of The Taming of the Shrew would address the types of concerns raised by Detmer and others, but no. Not a bit of it! Petruchio's claim that he is 'born to tame her', Greer writes in her thesis:\n\nrings like the greatest compliment he could pay her, and shows her a way to end her fruitless revolt; Petruchio vaunts like some hero who must ride a horse never before mastered, or draw an enchanted sword out of a rock.23\n\nChristine Wallace struggled to reconcile the central arguments of The Female Eunuch \u2013 'the feminist bible of the 1970s' \u2013 with the views Greer expressed in her PhD thesis, especially the chapter on The Taming of the Shrew. 'The feminist reader,' she concluded, 'encounters the uncomfortable possibility that Greer thought shrew-taming in the style of Petruchio and Kate could lead to happiness for women.' Like Detmer, she argues that when Petruchio uses methods other than violence in his campaign to subjugate his new wife, he is simply replacing physical cruelty with psychological abuse.24\n\nYet in The Female Eunuch, first published in 1970, two years after Germaine Greer received her doctorate, the view she expresses of Kate's 'taming' is essentially the same as in her thesis.\n\nKate . . . has the uncommon good fortune to find Petruchio, who is man enough to know what he wants and how to get it. He wants her spirit and energy because he wants a wife worth keeping. He tames her like he might a hawk or a high-mettled horse, and she rewards him with strong sexual love and high loyalty . . . The submission of a woman like Kate is genuine and exciting because she has something to lay down, her virgin pride and individuality . . . Kate's speech at the close of the play is the greatest defence of Christian monogamy ever written. It rests upon the role of a husband as a protector and friend, and it is valid because Kate has a man who is capable of being both, for Petruchio is both gentle and strong (it is a vile distortion of the play to have him strike her ever).25\n\n'How could it be,' asks a puzzled Wallace, that Greer \u2013 'highly intelligent, worldly, striking, striving \u2013 why would she of all people condone without a disclaimer women's longing for men who are capable of exercising dominion over them?'26\n\nWhy, indeed!\n\nAlways a driven, efficient worker, Greer finished her PhD thesis well within the time allowed by her Commonwealth Scholarship. In her introduction to her essay collection The Madwoman's Underclothes, she described how and where she completed the final draft. No more libraries, no more confinement to her room in Friar House; she had decamped, alone, with her books and a red typewriter, to a remote village in Calabria. Here she lived for three months in two rooms on the top floor of 'an isolated clump of stone buildings in sight of the sea'. The floors were terracotta, the walls 'of velvety whitewash'. Outside were brilliant cornfields, a grapevine and an uliveto \u2013 an olive grove \u2013 planted with 'the oldest olive trees I have ever seen, each with a girth of eight or nine feet'.\n\nHer routine was to get up before dawn, wash at the well (there was no running water in the village) while she watched the sun emerge from the grey sea, and sluice her floor with well-water so that the evaporation would keep the rooms fresh. Then she would drink thick black coffee and apply herself to the red typewriter.\n\nShe also developed close friendships with the local people, discovering in the process that her 'certainty' of the superiority of her urban education and culture was probably unwarranted. 'Three months of living with some of the poorest peasants in Europe,' she wrote, 'has turned that certainty upside down, and it has never righted itself.'\n\n'Where is your husband?' asked Maruzzo, the eight-year-old peasant boy who liked to keep her company. 'Why did your mother send you away?'27\n\nGermaine Greer formally received her PhD at a ceremony in the ancient Cambridge Senate House in May 1968. She had been happy during her three years of study, but from the first day, when other new students were showing their parents around their rooms, the lecture theatres and the magnificent surrounds of the university, she felt alone and different \u2013 cut off from those ordinary family connections that were part of the lives of others. On graduation day, as she observed the mostly upper-middle-class parents rushing about to photograph their successful offspring against famous landmarks like King's College and Erasmus's Bridge, she was keenly aware that she was an outsider, although she found some excuse in being Australian. In one way she was actually more relieved than sorry that Peg and Reg were not there, for she knew how utterly out of place they would have been in those hallowed spaces.\n\nNobody photographed me . . . not when I knelt resplendent in medieval red and black with my hands drawn in prayer within those of the Vice Chancellor. Germaine Greer, Philosophiae Doctoris Cantabrigiensis. I collected my degree by myself. There was no victory supper, no champagne. I had worked all my life for love, done my best to please everybody, kept going till I reached the top, looked about and found I was all alone. My parents were too ignorant even to appreciate what I had achieved.28\n\nAs one of the most brilliant graduates ever of a Cambridge PhD program, Germaine Greer achieved her aim of remaining in England. In 1967 she was appointed to Warwick University as an assistant lecturer. Already she was developing three distinct and wildly contrasting personae: the first was that of Dr Greer, scholar, university lecturer in English literature, an academic at a time when academics were fewer and much more revered than they are now. Her second persona was that of an actress. On the basis of her appearances in the Footlights productions she had made many friends in the theatre world and established a reputation as a talented performer. It was these contacts and this reputation that secured her a role on the Granada Television program Nice Time, filmed live each week in Manchester, where she appeared as herself, a co-presenter with Kenny Everett and interviewer in popular comedy sketches. Watching these sketches today on YouTube, the viewer is struck by her beauty, her figure-revealing costumes, the professionally constructed hairdos and her accent, in which only a faint trace of Australian is discernible.\n\nHer third identity was that of a leading light in London's counterculture of the 1960s, a role in which, mainly at weekends, she relaxed into hippiedom, her hair styled in an electric Afro, her clothing the colourful 'ethnic gear' and jangling, extravagant jewellery of the period. Joyfully and recklessly, she allowed herself to become drunk on alcohol and stoned on drugs with her many friends in the worlds of the underground and rock music. She took her sexual pleasure as she found it.\n\nBy the time she went to Cambridge to take out her degree, Germaine was well established at Warwick University, but once again she felt herself to be an oddity, for she was almost alone in being female among the carefully selected number of talented individuals the new university had recruited to build its academic credentials. Many of the men had female partners to whom Germaine was unable to relate. As a single, beautiful, sexually liberated and talented woman, she got along well with her male colleagues: she flirted, engaged with them intellectually, and even had sex with those she found attractive, but she did not fit in to their cosy, couple-orientated world of academic dinner parties and entertainments. Inevitably she fell foul of some of the wives and girlfriends who, as she discovered, resented her and gossiped about her behind her back. Much of their nastiness went over her head, for she herself was too big a personality to indulge in cheap forms of invective, but in time she came to despise those women for their pettiness and dependency. 'I had made it in a man's world,' she wrote in the draft Dedication to The Female Eunuch. 'And I reaped the fruits of the rarity of this phenomenon. I enjoyed other people's husbands without risk to my freedom, and I was repaid by their infatuation . . . I mocked the women who had sacrificed liberty for security.'29\n\nYet she would write her book for them.\n\nLiving in a rented bedsitter at Leamington Spa, near the university, Germaine was often lonely, but there were compensations. Shortly after her arrival at Warwick, she was in the office collecting her first pay cheque (which she thought depressingly lean) when she fell into conversation with the only other female don in her faculty, the sparkling Gay Clifford, who would become her lifelong friend.\n\nFour years younger than Germaine, Gay was probably her intellectual equal, although a series of unfortunate events in her life would prevent her from realising her full potential. She had enjoyed a privileged upbringing in a well-to-do, supportive family who lived in London. At Oxford, she had achieved a double-first in English literature. She was fiercely ambitious and competitive, physically beautiful and possessed of the same wicked sense of fun and humour as Germaine. At staff meetings, where they were outnumbered by colleagues who were not only of a different gender, but who had very different philosophies and world views, they were bound, as Germaine said many years later, by a kind of 'tacit solidarity', since they were also the hardest-worked members of the faculty.30\n\nLike Germaine, Gay was not popular with the faculty wives, so the two misfits did most of their socialising with the students, who loved and admired them as much for their colourful avant-garde dress and behaviour as for their fine teaching. 'Miss Clifford was a bit of a thrill. She wore crimson suits in a sea of professional grey . . . she plied you with advice on haircuts while combing through your essay on Piers Plowman with a red pen . . .' commented one of her students.31\n\nThe 1960s were the heady days of student demonstrations, and Dr Greer and Miss Clifford were on the students' side. In February 1968, when protesting students occupied the Warwick University registry, the two young staff renegades cheered them on. These were also the years of anti\u2013Vietnam War 'demos', in which Germaine, as an Australian, felt obliged to be involved. She was convinced that there were political dossiers on herself and on Gay, who was a socialist, in the Vice-Chancellor's files.32\n\nNevertheless, she worked hard to build her professional credentials and she generally managed to maintain a modicum of decorum so as not to offend the local academic community. Her escape valves were London's counterculture and the Granada studios in Manchester, where she went for the filming of Nice Time. Ever since her Melbourne University student days, she had scorned what she believed to be the academy's tendency to take itself too seriously. She found that, as a bohemian, hippie and actress, she could lighten up and release the tensions brought on by intense work and study: like her father before her, she was good at performing, and it was through performances of various kinds that she found her escape from the confronting solemnity of the academic grind.\n\nThe University of Melbourne Archives recently released a rare video of Germaine Greer appearing on Nice Time, apparently nude, in a bathtub full of milk. Obviously enjoying herself, she sponges her long arms and legs seductively, at one point revealing a glimpse of her naked breasts. Deeply shocking in those innocent times!33\n\nBritish journalist Linda Grant, writing in The Guardian in 2013, recalled watching Nice Time as a child. In retrospect, she saw the program as:\n\nthe high water mark of the sexual revolution's innocence, co-presented by Kenny Everett, Jonathon Routh and Germaine Greer. Greer had already been arguing against the constriction of bras and I recollect her dancing around on my parents' TV, exposing her breasts. Apart from the male excitement of undoing them, bras were a symbol of restraint.34\n\nTellingly, Grant goes on to make the point that Greer and the emerging band of her second-wave feminist sisters had yet to come to terms with: brassieres may well have been 'a symbol of restraint', but their removal was seen by some males as a sexual invitation, signalling to them that 'the braless dollybird was instantly accessible'. Women were still innocent \u2013 or ignorant \u2013 of the fact that some men (Grant cites notable examples from the 1970s like television personalities Jimmy Savile and Stuart Hall) would seize on the concept of women as 'liberated chicks' as a convenient rationalisation for their sleaze.\n\nThese men . . . were taking advantage of the sexual revolution, regarding all younger women as easy meat for exploitation . . . Male predators could embarrass and bully you into believing that fending off unwanted advances was something your grandma had to do to protect a modesty and virginity now out of date.35\n\nIn London, Germaine had many friends. Some, like Richard Neville and Barry Humphries, were from Australia; some were rock stars; nearly all were part of the capital's hippie culture. Before she acquired a pad of her own, friends invited her to sleep on their couches or, as in the case of disc jockey and broadcaster John Peel, in a spare room.\n\nIt was while she was staying in Peel's house that she first met his friend, the equally famous rock star Mick Farren. In his memoir Give the Anarchist a Cigarette, Farren recalled that meeting and the events that followed. Peel, he wrote, had invited him to travel up to the Mothers Rock Club in Birmingham to see The Who in concert. When he arrived to pick up Peel at his house, he discovered that there was to be another passenger, 'an angular Australian in a Thea Porter A Class Groupie costume'36. 'Hey hey,' he thought. 'Who the hell is this?'\n\nOn the ride to Birmingham, Farren went from 'interested' and 'fascinated' by Germaine to 'captivated'. She seemed to be interested in him too. 'The woman was so damned bright, and the more attention I paid her, the more I sensed a reciprocal stream of pheromones.' After the concert, which was memorable, Peel announced his intention to drop Germaine off at her flat in Leamington, as she had to teach at the university the next morning. Farren was dismayed. 'That's a pity,' he said. 'I had hoped we could go on talking.' Germaine's solution was simple. He should come and stay at her place.\n\nWhat followed was a night of 'boudoir sex, conversation and red wine', and then an intense affair that lasted for some months before she decided she had had enough of him. Farren had fallen in love and could not stop thinking about her, but from the start he had reservations. She was so incredibly clever. 'To say she was uncomplicated is like describing quantum physics as a brain teaser,' but there was also a kind of strangeness about her that made him wary.\n\nIn her brilliance, I feared an oddness festered. She was sensual, but cerebral in that sensuality . . . I think she enjoyed her liaisons with low-lifes on an earthy level of lust.37\n\nBefore the end of her affair with Farren, Germaine moved out of John Peel's spare room, having decided to accept an invitation to take a studio at The Pheasantry, 152 Kings Road, Chelsea.\n\nNobody lived at The Pheasantry except by invitation: the necessary credentials were creativity, bohemianism, iconoclasm and recognised talent in the arts. The building itself, built in the mid-nineteenth century, was originally used to raise pheasants for the royal court. By the 1960s and 1970s it had become a rather shambolic collection of studios, with a members-only club in the basement. Eric Clapton, who lived at The Pheasantry, tells in his autobiography of how he and George Harrison used to take acid and write songs at the club. Filmmaker Philippe Mora recalls:\n\nOur Pheasantry scene was a kind of cultural catalyst and melting pot. R.D. Laing would drop by and say we were normal and everyone else was crazy . . . Bob Whitaker [a] talented photographer, lived around the corner . . . Germaine Greer lived downstairs, working on a book . . . George Harrison would drop by . . .38\n\nGermaine did not have to wait until the underground scene became fashionable before she joined it in London \u2013 she had been a hippie back in the days of the Royal George, before the word was invented \u2013 but she took a little longer to embrace rock. Her Australian milieu was the pubs, where there was no music, and the jazz cafes like the one in Melbourne where she had fallen in love with the Greek drummer. In England, her music preferences only changed when she discovered the psychedelic delights of the Rolling Stones, and decided to become a groupie.\n\nAmong her many close friendships in London, none was more significant than her association with 'the boys from Oz', including journalists Richard Neville and artist Martin Sharp, the creators of Oz magazine. (Her studio at The Pheasantry was just below Martin Sharp's.)\n\nWhat luck they met, bouncing out of their campus newspapers, the start-up lads of their generation. What a good mix: Sharp, surely the most talented pop artist Australia has produced; Neville, mischievous, convincing, the money-raiser who was able to find enough pretty girls to sell OZ on street corners . . .39\n\nThe Australian Oz was launched in Sydney in 1963, two years before Prime Minister Menzies sent troops to Vietnam. Its targets, attacked mainly through satire, were prejudice against coloured people and homosexuals, censorship, values that sent young men off to war in defence of the indefensible and everything that got in the way of them having sex as often as they felt like it.\n\nAfter only three months of publication, and having gained a readership of eight thousand, the editors of the Australian Oz magazine were charged with obscenity, fined and acquitted. Later they were charged again, found guilty and sentenced to jail terms. The case included some memorable moments, but with the aid of brilliant lawyers \u2013 including John Kerr, who would later become the Australian Governor-General who famously sacked the Prime Minister Gough Whitlam, and Neville Wran, future Premier of New South Wales \u2013 the convictions were again overturned.\n\nRichard Neville moved to London, epicentre of the counterculture, in 1966, and immediately set about establishing the London Oz magazine. He was staying at his sister Jill's flat in Clarendon Road with his Australian girlfriend, Louise Ferrier, when his old friend Germaine Greer turned up one afternoon for tea. Richard thought that Germaine seemed unhappy. Decorously dressed in a cashmere twin-set, pearls and tartan skirt, and wearing a beehive hairdo, she paced restlessly across Jill's carpet, complaining that the only English men she knew were 'either queer or kinky'. Richard, who was working hard on setting up his London Oz magazine, suggested that she might like to write an article on the subject of English males for the first issue. 'I'd love to,' she responded. 'I've already got a title: \"In Bed with the English\".'\n\nLouise could hardly contain herself after Germaine left the flat. 'Incredible! Incredible!' she kept exclaiming. Germaine was still the amazing creature Louise had met at Repin's cafe in Sydney, the first woman she had known to say 'fuck' in public.40\n\nIn England, as in Australia, and the United States at that time, opposition to the war in Vietnam was growing exponentially. Thousands of people, especially the young, were marching and demonstrating in the belief that if enough people showed their anger, politicians would listen and the war would be brought to an end. Many Australians objected to their government's scaremongering rationale for conscripting young men to 'serve' in the war. There was no evidence, they insisted, that Australia was under threat of communist invasion from Vietnam, China or anywhere else.\n\nIn his memoir Hippie Hippie Shake, published in 1995, Neville records how, on May Day 1969, a group of Australian expatriates that included himself, Louise Ferrier and Germaine Greer assembled in the Strand to join an anti-war protest. Chanting 'Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh' and holding the Australian flag high, they marched towards Australia House, where they halted. Someone produced a box of matches and started a fire. Everyone was screaming, tussling with the flag as, 'larger than life, Germaine thrust herself to the fore and hurled the flag into the flames, shouting, \"We are all Viet Cong, we are all Viet Cong.\"' Neville was shocked, in spite of himself. 'However much I shared and identified with her rage, an ingrained respect for my dinkum Aussie Dad and his beliefs prevented me from endorsing what she did to the Southern Cross.'41\n\nSome months later, when the 'dinkum Aussie Dad' was visiting his son in London, Richard and Louise took him, 'The Colonel', out to see the sights, including 10 Downing Street and the Arts Lab in Soho. And who should they run into but Germaine Greer! Her hair was in an Afro, she was wearing heavily embroidered garments from Rajasthan and her long arms and fingers were festooned with Indian bracelets and rings.\n\nImmediately, she launched into a dissertation on marijuana. 'Have you ever been stoned, Mr Neville?' she asked the Colonel politely.\n\n'I gave up smoking, my dear, after I got pneumonia.'\n\n'The first rule of pot is don't get caught.'\n\nThe Colonel eyed her speculatively. 'You'd be a good catch, my dear.'\n\nThey discussed being body-searched for drugs. 'Let them try and body-search me,' said Germaine provocatively.\n\nThe Colonel considered the possibility. He asked Germaine if she lived nearby. Yes (she had just moved into her studio at The Pheasantry).\n\nShe took the Colonel by the arm 'How long are you in town, Mr Neville?' she purred.\n\n'Not long!' cried his alarmed son, and hailed a cab. 'Write us a piece about pot,' he called to her as they made their farewells. Germaine goosed the delighted Colonel. 'God, Germaine!' muttered Richard to himself as he pushed his father into the taxi.42\n\nBy this time Germaine's article 'In Bed with the English' had appeared in the first edition of Neville's London Oz in 1967. In it she claimed never to have had sex with an Englishman. Rather, she had been reduced to the role of sisterly adviser on sexual matters like contraception ('there had been improvements on coitus interruptus') and venereal disease ('Sweetie, those are lice. You are not so much diseased as dirty.'). In an attempt to 'sample' the country gentry, she wrote, she had attended a party where, all night, she had put up with the 'braying' of the assembled aristocrats. At party's end the host, who had hopefully removed his shoes and socks in preparation for a bout, chased her out into the garden. Taking advantage of his bare feet, she attempted to escape across the cricket ground that separated his property from the house where she was staying. He followed her in hot but crippled pursuit, eventually catching up with her on the pitch, where they rolled about for a bit. She berated him for his lack of loyalty to the cricket club and lost a fifteen-guinea earring. Then she was up and off again. 'The last I saw of him,' she said, 'he was remorsefully smoothing and patting the ravaged wicket.'43\n\nEnglishmen were politely outraged by the article. In Soho, Peter Cook, actor and satirist, publicly set fire to a copy. Another Englishman, Rod Lake, offered to take her to bed and change her mind. Ever the entrepreneur, Richard Neville set up a meeting between Greer and Lake in a pub. He wrote about it in the fourth edition of Oz but, as he was forced to admit, Germaine jumped into a taxi and escaped.\n\nThe Oz piece for which Germaine Greer is probably best remembered is 'The Universal Tonguebath: A groupie's vision'. According to Neville, this article was conceived early one morning when he and Germaine met accidentally in the dining carriage of a northbound train. He was on his way to Reading. She was going to Manchester to shoot some scenes for Nice Time. As they waited for the tea they had ordered separately, she told him about her recently developed passion for rock music and musicians. 'Oh?' he said, surprised. 'I thought you were strictly Bach and Verdi . . . I thought you spent all your spare time in libraries.'\n\n'No, no,' she assured him, 'I've been rushing off to rock concerts . . .'\n\nHer epiphany, she declared, had occurred at the Granada studios. 'The place was full of smoothies and groovers being cool, and this sweaty rocker with his underpants showing just blasted off . . . You know, I even find Engelbert Humperdinck horny-making. Those high-fronted shiny mohair trousers . . . ohhh . . . with a length of rubber hose. Evil. No wonder those lonely housewives cream their jeans . . .'\n\nThe waiter served Germaine with her pot of tea but ignored the thirsty Neville \u2013 probably, they both thought, because of his long hair. Not right, opined Germaine, sipping her own tea contentedly as she went on to describe how a group of musicians had 'eyeballed' her naked breasts as she was dressing for a show, and how she had once listened to some rock stars enjoying a group fuck in a hotel room adjacent to hers with the door ajar.\n\nAs the train reached the outskirts of Reading and Neville remained tea-less, Germaine 'shuddered with pleasure' as she uttered the words that would define the yet-to-be-written 'Universal Tonguebath'. 'You see, Richard . . . the group fuck is the highest ritual expression of our faith \u2013 but it must happen as a sort of special grace.'44\n\n'The Universal Tonguebath' appeared in issue 19 of Oz, early in 1969. On the magazine's cover is a magnificently psychedelic picture, created by Martin Sharp, of Germaine and Vivian Stanshall of the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah band. The bespectacled Stanshall gazes ahead pensively as Germaine, hippie-ness personified, with wild hair, flares, and multiple bracelets and rings, peers out from behind his shoulder, coyly extracting his clearly visible penis from the fly of his black-and-white striped trousers. 'OZ talks to DR G \u2013 the only groupie with a Ph.D in captivity', proclaims the blurb on the cover. Inside, the article appears with the caption 'Staff writer Germaine talks to Dr G, a celebrated (and over educated) international groupie.'\n\nWhat follows is Germaine Greer interviewing herself.\n\nIn the days before Beatlemania, she wrote, there were two kinds of musicians' birds \u2013 the musos' old ladies, and the scrubbers. The rock'n'rollers treated the scrubbers badly, taking out all their aggression on them, picking them up and throwing them away as the mood took them. The jazz scene was different.\n\nBut then jazz met rock, and the girls who had been sitting helplessly around club walls 'arose with their listening eyes and danced alone, opened out their beauty in the various light and sex flowed back into the scene and lapped all around them'.\n\nDr G had been slow to embrace rock music, wrote her 'interviewer', but when she met Simon Dupree and the Big Sound in a television studio she began to understand. The first pop star she 'actually pulled' was the lead singer in a 'nowhere' group that was performing at a ball in the country, and whom she actually did not 'dig'. Many others followed. Her own distinguishing characteristic, the one that set her aside from other groupies, was that she was a 'starfucker'.\n\nYou know [starfucker's] a name I dig, because all the men who get inside me are stars. Even if they're plumbers, they're star plumbers.\n\nThe article continued with a brief reference to drugs: 'I don't know. I mean everyone uses the sacrament Acid . . .' She had had a 'magical' multiple orgasm experience with a pop star on heroin, whom she still felt involved with although she had heard that he had recently fallen off a bandstand and that he got sick a lot. 'I guess it's unemancipated or something but I won't call him . . . I love him you know, him and a thousand others as they say.'45\n\nWas she, as the hippies would have said, 'for real' when she wrote this article? Initially she denied it ('My life is private') (!), but three years later, in an article for POL magazine, she explained that 'Dr G was also me', and that she had discussed, in the Oz piece, 'the rock musicians I have known and loved . . . and the life led by people who are caught up in the rock culture'.46\n\nIn the summer of 1971, the editors of Oz were once again charged with obscenity. During the famous London Oz trials that followed, people rioted outside the court and the crowd burned an effigy of the judge. Colourful barrister, and author of the Rumpole stories, John Mortimer, with the assistance of a young Geoffrey Robertson, appeared for the defence. The trial had many bizarre and hilarious moments that delighted the press and public. In one session Mortimer found himself in the embarrassing position of having to explain the meaning of 'cunnilingus' to the judge. The Oz editors were eventually convicted and sent on remand to the psychiatric unit of Wandsworth prison, where their long hair was chopped off. Richard Neville appeared on the steps of the prison, defying the governor's orders not to speak to the press. 'Fuck the governor!' he declared. Eventually their convictions were overturned on appeal.\n\nGermaine was unable to support her friends by giving evidence at their trial. By that time The Female Eunuch had become a worldwide bestseller, she had become rich and her life was being transformed. When the editors of Oz were standing in the dock at the Old Bailey, she was in Italy, in search of a tax haven.\n\nIn her leisure time, Germaine loved to walk about the London streets, her imposing figure hardly less noticeable in the world metropolis than it had been in the surrounds of Melbourne and Sydney universities. Usually she would meet up with friends for a meal or a drink at a pub. One Saturday morning, late in the winter of 1968, she was walking through Portobello Market when she spotted fellow Australian Derek Brook drinking outside Finch's pub with a tall building-worker whose jeans were spattered with concrete over his working boots. The attraction between Germaine and this fine example of rough trade, whose name turned out to be Paul du Feu, was instant and mutual. Only later did she find out that he had a very good degree in English literature.\n\nIn his memoir, Let's Hear It for the Long-Legged Women, du Feu recorded how, after joining him and Brook at the pub, Germaine had sipped Guinness from his glass and then asked for a half-pint of the same for herself, stroking his face, confiding to him her need to get 'well fucked', and telling him he had an 'odd sort of beauty'. Later, after she had taken a break to keep an appointment for afternoon tea with a member of the British aristocracy at his townhouse in Blenheim Crescent, she again met up with du Feu. They went back to Brook's flat and from there to a Notting Hill pub, where they drank whisky with Guinness chasers till closing time. Germaine remarked that du Feu should get new false teeth, since the ones he was wearing didn't seem to fit, but then, undeterred by the teeth, she accompanied him back to his flat for the night.\n\nIn his account of the relationship, du Feu remarked that, on that first morning in his flat, after a long night of sex, Greer asked him to make her a cup of tea. When he twice 'got sidetracked', she raised herself up on one elbow, saying, 'Listen sport, I've asked twice for a cup of tea and all that happened was I got fucked. D'you reckon if I asked for a fuck I'd get a cup of tea?'47\n\nMatters progressed swiftly from there. An entry in Germaine's diary for Thursday 30 May 1968 records that at 9.30 am she invigilated in the Old Library at Warwick. The entry continues, 'Catch the 1.35 to London, Euston. 3.45 Harrow Road Registry Office to get married.'\n\nHer diary entry for 31 May shows that she was back again at Warwick, invigilating at 2 pm. For the following day, Saturday 1 June, there is just one diary entry \u2013 a single, capitalised word \u2013 'DISASTER'.\n\nFurther diary entries show that on Monday 3 June, she took the train to Manchester to film Nice Time. On Thursday 13 June, du Feu arrived '6-ish' to stay with her at Leamington Spa. He left on Saturday at 2.14 pm. On Monday 17 June, she had to finish an article on humour that was due that day. On Tuesday she got her hair done. On Friday, after attending an examiners' meeting, she went down to London. On Saturday 22 June, she 'left Paul'.48\n\nSo the marriage lasted just three-and-a-half weeks. Du Feu claimed that the trouble started barely two hours after the wedding ceremony. They had gone for a drink at the Dennis Club in Paddington, and Germaine provoked him to fury when she danced with one of the club's regular lesbian customers. Du Feu attacked her, and she attacked him back, accusing him of possessiveness, and they both got very drunk, mainly on whisky. She told him she would like to have two or three children by different fathers, but none by him.\n\nWhen he went to Leamington Spa the following weekend, Germaine, according to du Feu, spent most of the time marking students' exam papers and getting drunk, like him. Back in London, he rented another, better flat in Shepherd's Bush from a friend. Germaine had told him she liked cooking, so he decided to use his building skills to make a home that would include a pleasant kitchen for her. He bought flowers and vases and new cooking utensils, and even ordered a stereo for her to listen to choral music, but it was all to no avail. When she next came to London and they met at Euston station she immediately launched into a long account of an argument at the examiners' meeting she had just attended at her university, which was of no interest to him. Her monologue continued in the taxi and she was infuriated when he tried to change the subject. They drank and fought for the whole weekend. She refused to use her new kitchen, accusing him of trying to turn her into a domestic slave. Early on the Monday morning, having chosen to sleep in an armchair, already fortified by half a bottle of whisky, she packed her Gladstone bag and left him for good.49\n\nThat was his story and Germaine later claimed that there was no truth in it. Yet, factually, her own accounts were not so very different from his. For many years she was reluctant to speak about her marriage, but in 2004, in one of her regular pieces for The Telegraph, she responded to a recent Daily Mail story written by journalist Helen Weathers, under the headline 'I was Mr Germaine Greer'. Greer remarked that Weathers could have saved herself the trouble of contacting du Feu in America, where he was then growing tomatoes, by simply recycling bits from his book, which he had sold to the publishers for US$60,000 in 1972 (more money, she said, than she had received in her advance for The Female Eunuch). What Weathers did not know, and Paul had not told her, she continued, was that when he met her he had only recently been discharged from a hospital where he had been treated for alcoholic poisoning. In the early stages of their acquaintance he had 'soft-pedalled on the booze'. When they decided to marry she 'made certain conditions that he appeared to accept', but by the time she found herself on the train headed for the registry office, she knew she was 'in deep trouble'.\n\nWhen the waiter on the train asked me why I looked so sad, I said: 'I'm going to marry a drunk,' and burst into tears, so he gave me a free bottle of Liebfraumilch to cheer me up. I was so miserable that I drank it.\n\nGermaine's version of dancing with the lesbian at her bridal celebration is slightly different from du Feu's.\n\nThe grim ceremony over, the bridal party went to a Bayswater club to celebrate. A sweet-faced old lady in men's clothing asked if she might dance with the bride, I stepped into her arms for a turn around the room and my drunken husband offered to fight her.\n\nOn her wedding night, she claimed, a drunk du Feu forced her to sleep in an armchair. She remembered 'every insult, every jeer, every threat, every humiliation'.\n\nHer version of the ending of the relationship is also different from his. It wasn't because of the rows, she said:\n\nI don't do rows. We were at a Sunday afternoon drinks party in a studio off Ladbroke Grove. He turned to me and sneered (drunk as usual): 'I could have any woman in this room.' 'Except me,' I said, and walked away for ever.50\n\nA previously unseen account of the marriage, written by Greer herself in 1969, appeared in 2013 when the first draft of The Female Eunuch became available in the Greer archive. Prepared to suit the purpose of the book, this account has a strong feminist orientation. She had decided to marry, she wrote, 'in a moment of inattention to what I knew was the intrinsic character of the institution'. As soon as she had been asked to sign the register, she realised that 'something awful had happened'. No longer 'free, busy and rich', she had become enslaved.\n\nSure I had security and legal protection, so has any inmate of Her Majesty's prisons. What I had before offered my husband in joy was now his to demand. I would be allowed to earn my own living, although I would be taxed as an appendage of his, and even to sleep with other people if he chose. [Greer's emphasis]\n\nShe had 'been prepared to learn the role of a wife as well as I could', she claimed improbably, given 'time and adaptability', but all too soon she discovered that neither was to be accorded to her, and she was told that she did not understand what being a wife was.\n\nAnd so another version of the end of the marriage was put forward. This time it was du Feu who was portrayed as having taken the initiative.\n\nThe threat held over was that of abandonment, a singularly meaningless one in this case, and eventually, after being told to go, like a Muslim wife, three times, I went on the fourth, with a great sense of liberation.51\n\nThe Greer archive has also made public a sad little letter to Germaine from a friend of du Feu's first wife, who was concerned about the effects of the negative publicity on his first family \u2013 du Feu had two sons who were then aged fourteen and sixteen. Germaine replied that Paul du Feu's activities had been 'an embarrassment' to her, as they surely must have been to his wife and children. However, he was not commonly known as his first wife's husband, she wrote, but as 'Mr Greer'. She felt concern for the wife and even more for the two boys, but she could do nothing to mitigate the embarrassment she shared with them.52\n\nThe relaxed Dutch pornography laws made Amsterdam a mecca for the counterculture in Europe in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Germaine and her friends soon gravitated to that scene. Some of the main players were herself, Richard Neville, Jay Landesman, Michael Zwerin, Jim Haynes and Heathcote Williams, plus Bill Levy and his partner Susan Janssen (known as Purple Susan).\n\nIn the summer of 1969, Bill Levy, his fellow expatriate American Jim Haynes, Heathcote Williams, a London-based magazine editor, Williams's girlfriend, the model Jean Shrimpton, and Germaine Greer met to form the first editorial group of the Amsterdam-based pornographic magazine Suck. Haynes would later say that Suck's first mistake was made at that initial meeting when the five participants failed to realise they should have stopped talking and made love together. Instead, Williams and Shrimpton went off briefly to have sex in another room.53\n\nCopies of Suck magazine, which are probably quite valuable because of their rarity, are now accessible in the Germaine Greer Archive at the University of Melbourne. They do not make pleasant reading. Some articles are harmless enough \u2013 best described as adolescent sexual smut \u2013 but others that include graphic descriptions of bestiality, incest and abuse of children are nauseating, even to a twenty-first century audience. Almost nothing appears to be off limits.\n\nIn addition to her editorial duties, Germaine wrote a satirical gossip column for Suck under the by-line 'Earth Rose', in which she mercilessly exposed some very private and intimate details of her friends' lives. Her targets also included a (named) male who, according to Earth Rose, had recently recovered from a case of the clap. In view of the state of his foreskin and disinclination to wash, she declared, readers should not attempt closer contact with this person. And Martin Amis did not like giving head. 'You have been warned,' she advised.54\n\nGreer understood and exploited the pulling power of Earth Rose's tittle-tattle, but she continued to believe that Suck should be a serious, non-exploitative vehicle for a 'clean', liberated brand of pornography. In keeping with this philosophy, some of her contributions to Suck were serious, clinical and proselytising to the point of being boring. Her advice for women on how to care for their vulva without using chemical products, in order to avoid pruritus and leucorrhoea, for example, is medically sound and has a fine moral ring to it, but it is not very entertaining. When she invited women to taste their vaginal secretions \u2013 if possible by sucking or, if they were not supple enough to reach, by inserting a finger \u2013 she was being absolutely serious.\n\nGermaine was convinced that, by openly and freely discussing and exposing all facets of human sexual activity, Suck magazine was performing a valuable service to society. She particularly wanted to change the traditional pornographic emphasis on women as passive objects of male fantasy to one of active female involvement and enjoyment. The problem was that the other editors were not quite on her wavelength. They agreed with her to an extent but their baser instincts apparently got the better of them \u2013 old habits died hard, and they eventually decided to go with titillation over education.\n\nLater, Germaine would claim that she had agreed to join the editorial board of Suck because she saw the magazine's potential as an 'antidote' to 'exploitative' pornographic papers like Screw and Hustler. She had tried, but failed, she said, to ensure that male bodies featured in the magazine, and that the art was erotic \u2013 'away from the tits 'n ass and the peep-show syndrome'. 'My co-editors were quite happy to let me expound my utopian sexual theories,' she wrote in 1985, 'and utterly indifferent to them.'55\n\nIn September 1969, shortly after the first edition of Suck had been published, author Tom Wolfe had dinner with Germaine Greer, Jim Haynes and other Suck people at Alexander's, a restaurant on the Kings Road. Wolfe did not take to Germaine; 'She was a thin, hard-looking woman with a tremendous curly electric hairdo and the most outrageous Naugahyde mouth I had ever heard on a woman,' he wrote in an article for New York magazine.\n\nWolfe went on to describe how, upon becoming bored, Greer had set fire to her hair with a match, and how the waiters had to put it out with napkins, making a noise like 'pigeons taking off in the park'. Also bored, Wolfe was as unimpressed with Suck as he was with its editors.\n\nSuck was full of pictures of gaping thighs, moist lips, stiffened giblets, glistening nodules, dirty stories, dirty poems, essays on sexual freedom, and a gossip column detailing the sexual habits of people whose names I assumed were fictitious. Then I came to an item that said, 'Anyone who wants group sex in New York and likes fat girls, contact L\u2013\u2013\u2013 R\u2013\u2013\u2013,' except that it gave her full name. She was a friend of mine.56\n\nNor was Wolfe impressed by Haynes's attempt to convince him that Suck's founders and contributors were committed sexual libertarians rather than smutty attention-seekers. As Germaine's hair blazed away, Wolfe studied Haynes's face for signs that he was joking, but the American was alarmingly in earnest. With growing horror, Wolfe realised that sex for these people had become a kind of religion, existing on a plane far beyond mortal venality \u2013 'Beyond Irony. Whatever it had been for [Haynes] once, sex had now become a religion, and he had developed a theology in which the orgasm had become a form of spiritual ecstasy.'57\n\nAs well as being responsible for producing regular editions of their magazine, the Suck editors were the organisers of two very popular 'Wet Dream' Film Festivals, held in Amsterdam in 1970 and 1971. Germaine was a member of the 1970 judging panel (later described by Richard Neville, who was also a judge, as 'eight libertarian loudmouths') that awarded first prize to Bodil Joensen for A Summer Day, which featured the beautiful female protagonist having sex (lovingly) with her animals. The Walt Disney Memorial Award went to Christie Erikson's film Snow White, in which the little men perform some interesting sex acts on the young heroine. Germaine's votes went to Jean Genet's 1954 classic Un Chant d'Amour.58\n\nMost of the events at the festival were films or film-related, but there were some live acts. The sexual libertarians relished the pornography just as much as they worked hard to provide intellectual justification for it, but, as Wendy Bacon, Richard Neville and others have related, even they displayed unfortunate remnants of 'bourgeois mentality' when they interrupted a performance by Austrian artist and actor Otto Muehl at the Kosmos meditation centre. His act, at which Germaine, wearing high-heeled boots and a fur coat she had bought with some of the early profits from The Female Eunuch, was present, started with two assistants coming on stage shouting 'Throw off your repressions'. Then the two young women entertained the audience with some lesbian fun. All quite kosher, until Muehl arrived with a goose. His plan was to cut off its head, place a condom on the neck and fuck one of the girls with it. He had done it before, but on this occasion he had overestimated the tolerance of his audience. On seeing Muehl's glinting knife, many of the sexually liberated 'freaked out'. 'If you kill that goose, we'll fucking kill you!' screamed one. Then, suddenly, Heathcote Williams leaped onto the stage and tried to pin Muehl down. Muehl fell off the stage as Williams grabbed the wildly flapping goose and passed it to Anthony Haden-Guest, a British journalist, who ran off with it. Fighting broke out in the audience as Muehl clambered back on the stage, confusedly declaring his right to employ the goose's head as he chose. As Richard Neville tells the story, a white-faced Heathcote Williams remained on the stage, weeping. Then: 'Germaine sweeps to his side, her face radiating gratitude, compassion, even love.'\n\n'Only Heathcote had the courage to stop the violence,' she shouted. 'Muehl's antics are sadistic and stupid . . . Six million Jews went to the gas chambers because of pigs like Otto . . . I will not sit through violence in the name of art.'59\n\nWhen the uproar died down, Muehl simply walked contemptuously to the centre of the stage and shat on it. Maybe, as libertarian journalist Wendy Bacon suggested, people were just thinking of the goose's welfare \u2013 why else would they have been outraged? But she felt this explanation was 'rather spurious' as they knew animals were killed every day. Perhaps this was just their way of rationalising their continuing inhibitions.60\n\nMuehl went on to pursue a more sedate, though often controversial, career as an artist until his death in 2013. The goose was taken to an Amsterdam canal barge, where it lived happily ever after.\n4\n\nThe Female Eunuch\n\nI wish to persuade women to endeavour to acquire strength, both of mind and body . . .\n\nMary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman\n\nIt is the morning of 21 April 1969. In Leamington Spa, England, Germaine Greer is setting down her first thoughts about the book for which she does not yet have a name, but which will make her enduringly rich and famous. Today, she writes, is 'the day on which my book begins itself, and Janis Joplin sings at Albert Hall. Yesterday the title was \"Strumpet Voluntary\", what shall it be today?'1\n\nIn Leamington Spa \u2013 as in London, Toronto, Sydney, Auckland, Washington DC \u2013 women brought up in the Western tradition are still contented (or miserable) to live the lives of busy domesticity for which society has conditioned them. They have no idea of the extent to which their lives are about to change. Consider, for example, Cheryl Davis, who lives in East Doncaster, Melbourne, Australia.\n\nIn Australia it is already evening. As Germaine takes up her pen on the other side of the world, Cheryl is reflecting on the day just past. She has completed all the tasks she set herself. After she drove her children to school, she had gone to Box Hill to choose the material for her new curtains. Then there was the food shopping, cooking, cleaning and getting the house tidy for Jim when he came home.\n\nCheryl is thirty years old. Born in 1939, she is the same age as Germaine Greer. At fifteen she left school, where she had taken the 'commercial girls' course, to become a typist and filing clerk in the mailroom of the head office of a large bank in the city. She found the work boring, but enjoyed the company of the other girls and the boys who brought up the heavy bags of mail and prepared the correspondence for the girls to sort. The boys earned more than the girls and nearly all of them suffered from acne. They laughed and joked a lot, but they knew they would be bank managers one day if they could earn the approval of the men who supervised their work. Cheryl, over the filing, thought only of Jim, who would become her fianc\u00e9, and how she would spend her next pay on items for her glory box.\n\nCheryl is very pretty \u2013 dark haired, green eyed. She is intelligent, too, but she does not yet know it. Germaine's book will change that. Jim, whom Cheryl married when she was 20 and he 23, is tall and handsome. At 33 he is on his way up, proud of his wife and children, neglecting no opportunity to show them off to the senior management of his firm.\n\nEach morning Jim leaves for work in his company car, a large, late-model Peugeot (his company is French-owned). For Cheryl he has bought an old, second- or third-hand Renault 750. It is not very reliable or even safe, but the children are still small and can all fit quite comfortably in the back.\n\nCheryl Davis does not know that Germaine Greer is about to write a book about her. Nor does she know that, in 1963, an American woman, herself a wife and mother of three children, had already written a book about her.\n\nAs she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, chauffeured Cub Scouts and Brownies, lay beside her husband at night \u2013 she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question \u2013 'Is this all?'2\n\nBetty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique, which sold three million copies in its first three years of publication, described the situation of millions of middle-class women like Cheryl. Representing their situation as a problem, 'the problem that has no name', Friedan painted a depressing picture of stunted creatures whose sole identity was that of unpaid servant to their families. The problem's archetype was the American housewife who had dropped out of college to take on the 'stifling' role of full-time wife, mother and homemaker. Symptoms of her dilemma included inexplicable fatigue, chronic depression and blisters that broke out over her arms and bled.\n\nWomen everywhere wrote to Friedan expressing their gratitude that, at last, someone was aware of their plight. Her book has been credited with sparking off the second wave of feminism.\n\nOn 1 December 1955, after a tiring day at work, a black woman, Rosa Parks, was riding on a racially segregated bus in Montgomery, Alabama, when the driver asked her to give up her seat in the coloured section to make room for a white passenger. She refused and was arrested. Her action ignited a long civil rights protest in Montgomery and she was hailed as the mother of the civil rights movement.\n\nIn September 1957, nine black students tried to enrol in the all-white high school in Little Rock, Arkansas. They were beaten, abused and spat upon until federal troops were called in to protect them. In 1958, black 'sit-ins' happened across the country, as blacks demanded an end to segregated seating in cafes and drugstores.\n\nThen came the Freedom Rides, when activists, black and white, rode on buses through the Deep South to integrate seating on buses and the use of facilities at bus stations. This was a dangerous mission; buses were firebombed and activists were attacked and beaten by angry mobs of white men. In Birmingham, Alabama, an FBI informant reported that the police commissioner Bull Connor gave the Ku Klux Klan fifteen minutes to beat up the freedom riders before moving in to 'protect' them. One rider was so badly beaten that he needed fifty stitches to his head.\n\nYet, despite the civil unrest in their country, throughout the 1950s and into the 1960s millions of white families in America continued to relax after their days' labours to consume doses of popular culture on television. The stories reassured them that the world was not changing as fast as it might seem. In situation comedies like Leave It to Beaver, white families lived in comfortable houses behind white picket fences, pretty mothers worried over nothing more serious than their children's squabbles and handsome fathers returned home from the office each evening to sort everything out. This was the dream Peggy Greer was pursuing when she persuaded Reg to buy the Cape Cod\u2013style house on Melbourne's bayside \u2013 the dream Germaine so aggressively rejected.\n\nPeggy's precocious older daughter was not alone in realising that the old certainties were crumbling. June and Ward Cleaver's measured efforts to teach their son, 'the Beaver', the values of truth, justice and the American way did not at all gel with the events viewers had just witnessed on the nightly news. How could America be a fair, prosperous society, a model to the world, when so many of its citizens were being beaten and vilified, thrown into jail without just cause?\n\nThen came Vietnam, and the illusions died forever when, for the first time in history, the horrors of war came into families' living rooms. Even at the beginning, when the media made great efforts to support US involvement, it was impossible to ignore the pictures of villages being destroyed and children being burned to death. Horrified citizens in all Western countries became aware of the massive injustices that were being committed in their name. Outraged that their country was the chief perpetrator of an unjust war abroad and massive racial persecution at home, the youth of America, both black and white, gravitated to the great protest movements that were shaking the world.\n\nNone of this was lost on Germaine Greer: increasingly, she was swept up in the excitement and rebelliousness of the times. Like many other activists, she soon became aware of the similarities between discrimination based on colour and on gender. Clearly it was a short step from understanding that if black people were being discriminated against because they were black, women were similarly oppressed because they were women.\n\nRosa Parks's famous refusal to give up her seat on the bus reminds us that, from the very beginning, women played a pivotal role in the civil rights movements of the 1950s, 60s and 70s. They led and joined the sit-ins, rode on the Freedom Rides and suffered beatings and jail terms. They turned up in their thousands at the Lincoln Memorial to hear Martin Luther King Jr speak in 1963. Lessons had been learned: the turbulent times provided a ripe context for protest; men in power showed that they would listen and act \u2013 however reluctantly, and however contested the field \u2013 in response to organised voices of dissent; men and women, black and white, could work together for change.\n\nBut despite the heroism of Rosa Parks and others like her, many male protestors assumed that women would play only a supporting role in the movements \u2013 typing meeting minutes, washing dishes, making the men feel good. Several people spoke along with Martin Luther King outside the Lincoln Memorial at the March on Washington, but not one was female, and that fact was hardly remarked upon. When future Mississippi governor Ross Barnett spoke the infamous words, 'The Negro is different because God made him different to punish him,' in 1959, surely some people must have considered the implication for women. Did being different from men mean that women deserved to be punished?3\n\nIn Washington DC on 28 June 1966, at a conference on the status of women, twenty-eight women gathered in Betty Friedan's hotel room to found the National Organization for Women. On a table napkin, Friedan wrote the acronym NOW. She and black activist Pauli Murray then proceeded to draft (also on a table napkin) a statement of purpose that declared:\n\nthe time has come to confront, with concrete action, the conditions that now prevent women from enjoying the equality of opportunity and freedom of choice which is their right, as individual Americans, and as human beings.4\n\nBy the end of the decade a substantial feminist literature was emerging. In the United States, Kate Millett, already battling crippling mental illness, was writing her groundbreaking Sexual Politics, and Gloria Steinem gained national and international fame following the publication of her article 'After Black Power, Women's Liberation'. The media's appetite was whetted. Women's liberation was about to become big business.\n\nGermaine made her first visit to New York at Christmas in 1968, while she was on vacation from her job at Warwick University. The visit is significant because of the connections she made with prominent men and women of the counterculture, whose lifestyles and attitudes were a powerful influence on the book she would start to write a few months later.\n\nShe had decided to stay with Lillian Roxon, whom she first met in Melbourne back in her student days. They had met up again in Sydney, where both were members of the Push, but did not become close friends as Lillian left Sydney in 1959, the year Germaine arrived.\n\nBy the time Germaine appeared in New York, Lillian, the New York correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald, had become a popular personality in the rock and underground scene, the centre of which was the famous Max's Kansas City restaurant, hangout of rock royalty and artists like Andy Warhol, Leonard Cohen, Janis Joplin, Jane Fonda and their friends, who congregated in the back room. Germaine realised that Roxon was well placed to introduce her to these people, the cream of New York 'hip' society. Because it was customary for Push members to seek each other out on their travels, she had decided, without asking, to stay in Lillian's flat.\n\nThe journalist Robert Milliken would later note that the two women were a study in contrasts: Lillian was 36, attractive, short and tubby, with shoulder-length fair hair. Germaine, 29, was very tall and dark. On her first visit to Max's she created an instant impression, strikingly attired in an 'embroidered satin antique jacket from the Chelsea Antique Market, her Bessarabian Princess's Defloration robe, a black net and silver belly dancer's vest and see-through chiffon velvet elephant pants'.5\n\nWhen she turned up at Lillian's small apartment on East 21st Street expecting to stay there, Germaine discovered that she was not welcome. Lillian, who was already suffering from the asthma that would eventually kill her at only 41, and anxious about her recent weight gain, was struggling to meet her publisher's deadline for her Rock Encyclopedia, which was destined to become an icon of its genre.6 Her flat was overflowing with books and papers and she told Germaine she did not have room for guests. Instead of offering her couch, she had booked Germaine into the Broadway Central, a cheap hotel which she thought was all her friend could afford.\n\nThirty years later, Germaine told Robert Milliken about the episode. She had been prepared to doss on Lillian's floor, she said, because that was the way of the Push. Enough people had dossed on her floor. But Lillian had refused to have her. 'She just did not want me there.'\n\nSo she found herself a lone nonentity in New York, relegated to a hotel which, as she was later to find out, had been the scene of a number of homicides. When she arrived to check in she was informed that her room would not be ready before midnight. 'As I stood there,' she told Milliken, 'all kinds of human flotsam and jetsam were creeping up to the desk, junkies and madmen . . . It was like dropping someone into a snake pit.'\n\nThat evening she went to a gathering of some academic friends at an apartment on Riverside Drive, near Columbia University, where she met up with the English novelist and historian Andrew Sinclair. Appalled to hear where she was staying, he insisted on returning to the hotel with her. They couldn't use the lift because someone resembling a corpse was being brought down in a wheelchair, with a cigarette in its mouth to make it look alive. Taking the stairs, they were confronted by a drag queen screaming that the police were after him because he had not paid his taxi fare. 'How much is your cab fare?' asked Germaine. 'Ninety-five dollars,' he replied. 'Where the fuck did you come from, Mexico City?' she cried as she continued up the stairs to spend her first and last night in her room.7\n\nSinclair, in his account of the episode, confirmed that the body in the wheelchair was 'a stiff'. 'How do you know he is a stiff?' Germaine asked him. 'Because they can't light the cigarette in his mouth,' he replied. His recollection was that the drag queen had asked him for twenty dollars and he had given him two.\n\n'We did not even kiss good-night,' Sinclair reminisced, 'but we have continued to respect each other mightily \u2013 she's a fine woman.'8\n\nNext day Germaine moved to another friend's apartment on 110th Street, on the edge of Harlem, a long way from Lillian on 21st Street.\n\nIn May 1971, Lillian Roxon told her side of the story of Germaine's visit to New York.\n\nI had just developed asthma . . . My home was covered in newspapers and pages of my manuscript. New York was in the throes of a cockroach plague, I was exhausted and bad-tempered and definitely NOT in the mood to entertain anyone, let alone a lady larger than life . . .9\n\nWhen she told her friend that she needed to be left alone, she continued, Germaine showed no sympathy. 'She said, without a trace of compassion, that it was all in my mind, and the love of a good man would solve everything, her usual solution . . .'\n\nDespite the inauspicious start to her holiday, Lillian was Germaine's golden ticket into the elite of New York's rock-art culture. Roxon's New York friends remember her introducing Germaine to the Warhol society at Max's. 'There is no way you could have paid anyone to do the PR that Lillian did out of her heart and out of her belief in her friend,' declared Danny Goldberg, close friend of Lillian, rock fan, author and 'fixture' at Max's.10\n\n[S]he brought Germaine Greer to Max's for the first time. She said, 'This is my friend Germaine and she's going to write this book, she is really important, she's really famous in Australia,' and she introduced her to everybody and it ended up with Germaine being on the cover of Life Magazine. That was all Lillian.11\n\nBut the relationship between the two women was fraught. On one occasion, Germaine arrived at Max's and attempted to join Lillian's party. For no reason (this is Germaine's version), Lillian 'just ripped into me. She abused me up hill and down dale \u2013 everything about me. My face, my hands, my feet, my voice, my mind . . .' Germaine swore that she did not retaliate. 'I just sort of sat there with tears running down my face'. Then, she said, she left quietly.12\n\nBy this time, in 1968, Betty Friedan's NOW was well established. The wider female liberation movement was flourishing, but on this, her first visit to New York, Germaine's heroes and heroines were not the demanding political figures of renascent feminism but rather the artists, musicians and rock stars who lived their freedom and expressed it in song, dance and disgraceful behaviour. On holiday in one of the greatest cities of the Western world, she found women who had broken free of the stereotypes. It would be for these women, and for women everywhere who would heed their message, she declared, that she would write a book.\n\nIt was the women I have met in London and New York, bloody but unbowed, riding the waves of achievement and failure with a valiant attempt at equanimity, still warm, still tough, still sensuous and lovely, sometimes marvellously neurotic. These are my sisters and through them I have learnt to recognise the female principle. The woman who decides to trust to herself, her uncertain beauty and half-disciplined mind and make her own rules for existence in this white man's world, walk into the wilderness like the Duchess of Malfi, and dares the unknown.13\n\nShe would eventually dedicate The Female Eunuch to five of these women (though in an original draft there were eight). The first woman named is easily identifiable as Lillian Roxon.\n\nThis book is dedicated to LILLIAN, who lives with nobody but a colony of New York roaches, whose energy has never failed despite her anxieties and her asthma and her overweight, who is always interested in everybody, often angry, sometimes bitchy, but always involved. Lillian the abundant, the golden, the eloquent, the well and badly loved; Lillian the beautiful who thinks she is ugly, Lillian the indefatigable who thinks she is always tired.14\n\nLillian was appalled when she first heard about this classic example of Germaine's infamous venom from her friend Tony Delano, an Australian journalist who was working for the Sunday Mirror in London. 'He thought it was lovely. I thought it was simply horrible,' she told Robert Milliken.15\n\nThere it stands to this day \u2013 the first paragraph on the first page of every edition of the book that has been read by millions over nearly fifty years. Would it have been different if Lillian had let Germaine sleep on her couch?\n\nLittle has been known about how Germaine Greer came to write The Female Eunuch until recently, when her archive became available to researchers.\n\nHer Warwick University diary for 1969, now housed in the University of Melbourne's Germaine Greer Archive, shows that on 17 March she met her friend Sonny Mehta, the commissioning editor for the publishing house MacGibbon & Kee, an imprint of Granada, at a cafe in Golden Square in Soho, London. She told him that her agent, Diana Crawfurd, had suggested that she should write a book about female suffrage. Germaine was not interested but Mehta, astutely aware of the commercial potential of books in the rapidly growing field of feminist literature, managed to persuade her to think about writing a book about women that was not limited to the question of suffrage.\n\nStill predominantly an academic, a part-time actress and a weekend hippie, the Germaine Greer of this time was not formally involved in any of the organised feminist movements. She was dismissive of the by-now old, tweedy 'New Women' of first wave feminism, and she was bored by most of their modern counterparts. Yet Mehta's proposal appealed to her. As a libertarian, she had long despaired of the condition of women, whose lives she saw as blighted by the constraints of marriage, the nuclear family and the institutions of religion and the state. She was also well aware of the media's interest in the new feminism. Included in her preliminary notes for The Female Eunuch are some handwritten pages with the heading 'TFE' ('Women's Liberation is dead trendy these days' crossed out) in which she notes that:\n\nthe 1969 'second wave' of women's liberation manifestations were very much a ['media mani' crossed out] phenomenon of the sinister forces in our society which we call the media. From pulling in millions of pounds, lire, dollars, and what have you ['from' crossed out] on brainwashing women into demanding emulsified fats, perfumed douches, liver-corroding analgesics and other consumer 'products' which are as necessary to keep our economy on keel as the threat of war or anarchist insurrection the newspapers ['sold their advertising brochures' crossed out] kept up their circulation and thus their advertising by inventing a new sensation. Women's Liberation.16\n\nAfter her meeting with Sonny, she returned to her bedsitter in Leamington Spa to prepare a proposal for him. At first, she thought her book would be a series of essays about a 'problem'.\n\nMy book on women, for which I have not yet devised a title will be a collection essays of what it is like to be a woman in 1969. The aim is not to present a plan, or even a series of certainties or correct observations, but a correct statement of a problem. The problem is not one of personal happiness (although doubtless women will decide that there is no problem except a personal one for individuals like me) but the problem of female identity.17\n\nThe development of the pill, she continued, was having a stronger influence on women's emancipation than getting the vote, accessing education or equal pay. It was now time to 'clear the decks for whatever progress will take place, by discerning what is old, retrogressive, spurious in the culture offered to women in what is still a male society'. Already she had conceived the notion of 'female castration', and she was convinced that the most important factor in overcoming it was the development of women's understanding of themselves as fully sexual beings.\n\nI believe that the most important factor in overcoming female castration is the beginning of awareness, otherwise I should not bother with a book at all.18\n\n'Saw Sonny. Gave him synopsis. Talked till 5 am', reads her Warwick diary entry for 29 March 1969. Of course, they talked about the book. Because they were both aware of its commercial potential, they agreed that Germaine should not write an 'academic' book that would attract only a limited readership. It would have to be a blockbuster. On fire with enthusiasm and excitement, she wanted to create something sensational, 'outrageous', that would shock the world into making 'revolution for the hell of it'.\n\nOpposing the predicament of women would come as naturally to Germaine as fighting the oppression of black Americans had come to leaders of the civil rights movement across the Atlantic. To many the similarities appeared to be self-evident. Greer's heroes were her friends Abbie Hoffman, who wrote the book she quoted in her synopsis, Revolution for the Hell of It, and other male radical American writers like Eldridge Cleaver, a black activist and an early leader of the Black Panther Party, whose memoir Soul on Ice is a classic statement of black alienation and oppression in the United States.\n\nI shall describe some ways of being outrageous which I privately think also mirror some of our deepest desires, so that women can make revolution for the hell of it (my book is aware of ['Jerry Rubin' crossed out and replaced by 'Abby [sic] Hoffman'] too) which is the only kind at all likely to succeed.19\n\nA collection of typed and handwritten notes, preliminary drafts and reflections preserves Germaine's first, surprisingly well-formed, ideas about her book. She goes straight to the heart of the problem, even showing a prescient awareness of the having-it-all-syndrome that would plague women in the decades ahead. Already she recognised, as established feminists like Friedan apparently did not, that creating the political and economic conditions for females to join the male hierarchies, even on equal terms, though necessary, would not be enough. Women would need to look deep into their own bodies and souls to find solutions to the dilemma of their oppression. ('What oppression?' cried the Cheryl Davises of the world, thereby proving Germaine's point.)\n\nShe reflected on her attitudes towards her own sex, and on her own situation as a woman who had been successful in a male world. She was certainly not about to write out of love for women.\n\nI have suffered a great deal at the hands of women, nuns, nurses, sexual rivals, and I had as a result, no interest in their problems at all. I would no more have written a book for my people than the first black senator would be likely to join the Black Panthers. I had made it in a man's world and I reaped the fruits of the rarity of the phenomenon. I enjoyed other people's husbands without risk to my freedom, and was repaid by their infatuation.20\n\nIn her musings about what she would write in her book, and why, Greer looked back on her own life, painting a picture of herself as a young girl, probably but unknowingly a prodigy, who discovered herself to be out of step with most of her contemporaries. At school, she was mostly clever enough to disguise or adapt to that fact, but at home, every day, she observed with frustration her mother's pathetic attempts to please her husband and family, to look attractive, to conform to the stereotypes, and she knew that she herself could never be like that. Even as a child she believed that the God who had made her too tall had decreed that she was to be an oddity, a misfit. She would have to learn to develop 'tactics' to deal with that misfortune, so devastating for a little girl who only wanted, like all children, to belong.\n\nThose tactics eventually brought her freedom, but it came at a price.\n\nI can have no credit for inventing the tactics: they were forced on me as a freak \u2013 too tall, too clever, too noisy \u2013 at a very early age.21\n\nHer reflections continued. As a university student, after a shaky start, she had begun not only to understand her situation, but to see it as superior to that of the common run of women. She met congenial people, male and female, and followed her convictions with growing confidence, eventually coming to realise that the freak was now being perceived as an icon. She must be doing something right. At first, she said, the 'tactics' of her unusual lifestyle 'merely functioned', but later she was able to develop a rationale for them. Now, at Warwick, on the cusp of writing her book, she rejoiced that she had 'made it in a man's world' and 'reaped the fruits of the phenomenon'.22\n\nShe had promised Sonny Mehta that she would write a book about women, but she knew, and he perceived, with the excitement of a publisher who stood to make a lot of money from a book, that her preoccupations were not simply with the male\/female divide or even the many ways in which women, like blacks, were oppressed. Her issue was with the dilemma of womanhood itself. What was it about women that had placed them in their present state?\n\nAs she prepared to write The Female Eunuch, Greer was grappling, in a very personal way, with the notion that lumbering men with the blame for women's troubles was attacking the wrong problem. Women would need to look within their own beings to discover, at the most profound levels, what it meant to be female, and, more specifically, what aspects of their 'femininity' were contributing to their oppression.\n\nImportantly, her experiences of living within the countercultures of the United Kingdom and the United States had taught her that there were ways of being female that did not bend to the stereotype. The women to whom she would dedicate her book had shown her that it was possible to subvert 'the docile womanhood of the world'. She would begin by questioning 'the commonest presumptions about women, first her body, then her soul'.23\n\nThe Female Eunuch was first published by MacGibbon & Kee in London, in October 1970, just eighteen months after Germaine's discussions with Sonny Mehta in the Soho cafe. The publishers, unprepared for the book's explosive success, could not print extra copies fast enough to meet demand. The cover alone would become iconic. Designed by artist John Holmes, it shows the naked torso of a white woman separated from the rest of the body. Suspended helplessly from a pole, the torso has a handle protruding from each hip and the genitalia are missing, as in most dolls. 'She has tits because the iconography of commercial sex allows them,' Greer explained to her friend Gershon Legman in 1972. 'No energy, she just hangs there, like the hunchback girl in the dirty joke. She is also equipped with handles on her hips, troops for the use of.'24\n\nAs a graphic representation of the book's title, the figure sears into readers' minds an unforgettable image of what the book is about. In 1971 Greer told an interviewer from the New York Times that she saw the title and cover of her book as 'an indication of the problem'.\n\nWomen have somehow been separated from their libido, from their faculty of desire, from their sexuality. They've become suspicious about it.\n\nLike beasts, for example, who are castrated in farming in order to serve their master's ulterior motives \u2013 to be fattened or made docile \u2013 women have been cut off from their capacity for action. It's a process that sacrifices vigour for delicacy and succulence, and one that's got to be changed.25\n\nIn her summary to The Female Eunuch, which is published in the opening pages of many editions of the book, she noted that, by the mid-twentieth century, the militant ladies of first-wave feminism had grown old, the main force of their energy had drained away, and their 'evangelism' had withered into 'eccentricity'. Yet, two generations earlier, these women had opened the cage door for women. Why was it that 'the canary had refused to fly out?'26\n\nThe problem would not be solved, she believed, until essential questions about the kind of liberty that would set the canary free were understood and resolved. Political activity would be essential, but women could not afford to wait until the old paternalistic structures decided to give way. They would have to learn to understand themselves before they could arrive at a definition of their present condition.\n\n. . . it is absolutely essential that women arrive at a correct description of their present plight in order not to incorporate its present aspects in a new order; so I have come to write a book.27\n\nThus, 'Body', the first chapter of the book, begins with an assessment of the female body, which Greer describes in meticulous detail in the sections 'Gender', 'Bones', 'Curves', 'Hair', 'Sex' and 'The Wicked Womb'. In this first group of topics, she explains her theory \u2013 the central argument of the book \u2013 that the bodies of women have been effectively castrated for the convenience of men. The vagina has become unmentionable to the point of obliteration, its natural odours disguised by all manner of expensive unguents; women's bones are wasted by dieting and poor nutrition; body hair is shaved or waxed away; curves are exaggerated or disguised; sexuality has become passivity. The wicked womb is commonly seen as the source of all female problems \u2013 hysteria, menstrual depression, the multitude of imagined weaknesses for which women are judged to be unfit for active participation in those activities men have claimed for themselves.\n\nGreer wants women to develop a clear perception of these perversions and to seek to recognise the true nature of their bodies, by physically examining and probing their most intimate nooks and crannies without feelings of guilt. Provokingly, with her usual eye to the impact of shock tactics and the market value of sensationalism, she even suggests that they taste their own menstrual blood \u2013 'if it makes you sick, you've a long way to go, baby'.28\n\nIntroducing the second chapter, 'Soul', Greer paints an exotic yet tragic picture of the feminine stereotype.\n\nShe is the crown of creation, the masterpiece. The depths of the sea are ransacked for pearl and coral to deck her; the bowels of the earth are laid open that she might wear gold, sapphires, diamonds and rubies.29\n\nOnce upon a time, she continues, it was only the wives of aristocrats who could 'lay claim to the crown of creation'. Only their feet were small enough, their hands white enough, their waists narrow enough, their hair sufficiently golden to display the wealth and status of their owner-husbands. Then the burghers' wives caught up with the aristocratic ladies and now, in our own time, most women can pamper and adorn themselves as proof of their husbands' success in the world. But what of their souls?\n\nThe stereotype is a soulless doll. Her value is determined only by the extent of her attractiveness to men, and no hint of independent thought or action must be permitted to impede her allure. She may stand by a motorbike in an advertisement, for she is a great seller of the world's goods, but she must not ride it. Her expressions may provide tantalising glimpses of smouldering lust, but she may know lust only as irrational submission. She must betray no suggestion of humour, curiosity or intelligence, but she needs to project happiness, for an unhappy woman becomes a man's problem wife. She must be young and hairless, her body buoyant; most importantly of all, 'she must not have a sexual organ'.30\n\nIn 'Love', the third chapter of The Female Eunuch, Greer suggests that 'an attainable ideal of love' might resemble the kind of relationship suggested by Maslow, in which two 'self-regulating' personalities come together under 'an autonomous moral code', free from imposed restrictions. 'The essential factor in self-realization is independence, resistance to enculturation.' There are strong hints of the conflicts Germaine herself has experienced in attempting to give and receive such love.\n\nA woman who decided to become a lover without conditions might discover that her relationships broke up relatively easily because of her degree of resistance to efforts to 'tame' her, and the opinion of her friends will usually be on the side of the man who was prepared to do the decent thing, who was in love with her, etcetera . . . Her love may often be devalued by the people for whom she feels the most tenderness, and her self-esteem might have much direct attack . . . Even if a woman does not inhibit her behaviour she will find herself reacting in some other way, being outrageous when she only meant to be spontaneous, and so forth. She may limit herself to writing defences of promiscuity, or even books about women. (Hm.)31\n\nShe goes on to describe the common 'perversions' of love in the twentieth century, notably those portrayed in romantic literature. In this most entertaining chapter she paints a perfect picture of her Byronic hero \u2013 'He has more than a hint of danger in his past conquests, or a secret suffering or a disdain for women. The banked fires of passion burn just below the surface . . .' The first of these heroes, she points out, were Rochester, Heathcliff, Darcy and Lord Byron himself. Later novelists, like Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland, had attempted to create their counterparts. There is Heyer's hero Lord Worth, the Regency Buck with world-weary eyelids, who rescues his helpless young heroine from the evil intentions of the Prince of Wales, and Cartland's Lord Ravenscar, who covets lovely Amanda's tiny body. Particularly titillating is Cartland's description of poor, ineffectual little Amanda, arms and legs flailing in fruitless resistance, becoming exquisitely aware of Lord R's 'rising passion' as he carries her masterfully to the sofa.32\n\nAmanda has no power in this terrifyingly delightful situation. 'How could such a delicate little thing kick a peer of the realm in his rising passion?' queries Greer; but, wryly, she acknowledges that she herself cannot claim to be fully emancipated from the dream. 'For three weeks I was married to him.'33\n\nWhat Heyer, Cartland and their ilk strategically refused to recognise, Greer argues, is that female objects of male fantasy are not Lord Worth's young lover or Ravenscar's Amanda but 'the opulent tigresses of thriller literature', The Poison Maiden and The Great Bitch. The latter category, 'those extraordinary springing women . . . wheeling suddenly upon the hero, talons unsheathed for the kill', are a familiar sight in men's and boys' comics. They also appear in the fantasy creations of writers like Ian Fleming, in which the aggressively male hero carries a phallic armoury of weapons to attack the female. In this part of her book, Greer also quotes the notoriously misogynistic Norman Mailer, whom she was soon to meet and debate in New York (and to whom she would inevitably find herself attracted), as another famous exponent of the genre: 'She was a handsome woman, Deborah, she was big. With high heels she stood at least an inch over me. . . .' he wrote \u2013 prophetically, as it turned out.34\n\nWith such perceptions of the impossible polarities between male and female, Greer's critique of 'The Middle-Class Myth of Love and Marriage' towards the end of the Love chapter comes as no surprise. The key word here is 'myth'. Wives like to deceive themselves into believing their husbands to be strong, rich, handsome, et cetera, when they know at a deeper level that they are actually 'paunchy, short, un-athletic, and snore or smell or leave their clothes lying around . . . It never occurs to them to seek the cause of their unhappiness in the myth itself.'35\n\nReaders who have got this far into The Female Eunuch may be excused for thinking that, as Winston Churchill once famously said of democracy, the institutions of marriage and family are the worst forms of social organisation, especially for women, but they are better than all the others. What practical alternatives can there be?\n\nGreer's only suggestion is a utopian fantasy whose chief value is that it allows us to see how she, at the age of thirty, perceives her own life and future. She has already made one disastrous attempt to marry and is unlikely to do it again. She is highly intelligent, highly educated, highly successful. She believes that she has seen through the myth of love and marriage and has escaped becoming its victim. Sex is freely available to her, she does not need a man's money to support her. There is just one problem. Her body craves a baby. And how can she care for that baby in the absence of its father? Where can she find the time, to say nothing of the inclination, to care for 'his' needs? What sort of life would it be for her child, cooped up in a city flat all day while she is off at the university?\n\nShe is aware that she is not alone. Other brilliant women like her are also deciding not to reproduce, and for similar reasons. After much deliberation, she conceives a plan, inspired by the months she spent in the village in Calabria, that she and a group of like-minded women who wanted to breed could purchase a farmhouse in Italy. Immediately after giving birth they could take their children to live on this property and leave them there. They, the mothers, and even the fathers and some friends, if they so wished, could visit the children for longer and shorter periods, to rest, enjoy themselves, even work a bit. Her child would not even need to know that she was 'his' mother:\n\nIf necessary the child need not even know that I was his womb-mother and I could have relationships with the other children as well.36\n\nAnd the problem of who will look after the children's daily needs? Well may the reader wonder who will change the nappies of these children. Who will feed them, bathe them, toilet train them, suffer their crying in the sleepless nights? And who will clean the house? Look after the garden?\n\nNo problem at all: a local family will take care of all the tasks the birth mothers are much too busy and important to attend to. Somehow, the woman or women of this simple family will not need to be counted as women who might also want to become emancipated!\n\nAnd so the book proceeds towards its blockbuster conclusion. 'Women have very little idea of how much men hate them' is a horrific wake-up call. Surely, one thinks, it cannot be true, but she marshals the evidence: the habitual put-downs, the casual abuse, the snide references to sexual conquests, the nasty names for women and their sexual parts. With her usual academic thoroughness she lists what must be nearly every male-invented term for women: cow, bitch, douche-bag, pig, pig-meat, dog, drab, slut \u2013 and more. Then for their vaginas: meat, snatch, pussy, slit, crack and tail. Then she retells the story of the gang rape of the prostitute Tralala from Hubert Selby Jr's Last Exit to Brooklyn, who suffers violation after violation in a car, only to be abandoned, presumably left to die, by the fifty or so crowing men who argued among themselves and drank beer as they waited their turn. Tralala's nipples were destroyed by the cigarettes the men stubbed out on them, her lips were split, her teeth broken, her body soaked in urine, and a broomstick was shoved 'up her snatch'.37\n\n'Punished, punished, punished for being the object of hatred and fear and disgust, through her magic orifices, her cunt and her mouth, poor Tralala,' wails Greer. The Cheryl Davises of the Western world cried out in anguish: Can it be true? Do men really hate women that much? What secrets are hidden in our husbands' dark hearts? Do they all harbour private fantasies like the rape of Tralala? Is this why they won't let us into their pubs? Is that what they talk about there? But why? When we women try so hard to please them!\n\nMore dispassionately, Greer noted that as long as men continued to act out their accustomed roles, feminists would see them as The Enemy. But when both sexes were brought face to face with the myths of the all-powerful male \u2013 the Omnipotent Administrator \u2013 and his opposite, the Ultra-feminine, women might see that men were only the enemy in the same way as 'some crazed boy in uniform' is the enemy of another like himself. 'One possible tactic is to try to get the uniforms off.'38\n\nThe forms of 'Revolution' Greer outlines in her final chapter differ from other feminist prescriptions for change in that they demand little or nothing of men. It is up to women to change the world by their own new insights and actions. First they must learn to understand that they are collaborators in their own oppression. They are the ones who flee to marriage for security, thereby pledging their lives away for ever; they are the greatest consumers of goods, both household and personal; they are the providers of the cheapest form of labour, slaves of the nuclear household, which is the chief unit of consumption. Once they realise their true situation, the answers become clear. They must not marry. If they are already married they should run away, leave their children if necessary. They should live with their sisters in various forms of social organisation which they will be free to sort out for themselves. Men will be around, but women will not belong to them or provide cheap services for them. Even paternity is to be denied, as the idea of family shifts from nuclear to collective.\n\nThus will the present state wither away, all by itself, and the suffering proletariat will be spared the conflict of a masculine, Marxist reversal of their condition. But she fears that not even the Marxists will be behind her. 'They might even identify the authoress [sic] as an anarchist and first for the firing squads . . .'39\n\nIn the popular mind, The Female Eunuch has come to be thought of as a seminal text of second-wave feminism, but from the time of its original publication the book's connection to the women's movement has been tenuous, and Greer's relationship with her feminist sisters in the United Kingdom and the United States has been problematic. In February 1984, eight of the most prominent feminists in England \u2013 Sheila Rowbotham, Angela Phillips, Reva Klein, Liz Heron, Judith Hunt, Hilary Wainwright, Kate Falcon and Gail Lewis \u2013 wrote, in a letter to the Sunday Times:\n\nJust to avoid misunderstanding, can we make it clear that Germaine Greer never involved herself in the women's movement in this country. Judging by the romantic nonsense she spouts about her Italian lovers she has had little contact with the Italian movement either. Her thoughts are her own and they are based not on history, not even on the present, but on a sentimental misalignment of information plucked from a dozen sources, countries, cultures and centuries.40\n\nBy January 1971, The Female Eunuch was already a sensation, though it had been in the English bookshops for less than three months. Thousands of copies had been sold in England, America and Europe, and it had been translated into eight languages. From all over the world, Germaine received letters from excited women who told her that this book had changed their lives. Of these many, many letters, one stands out as being representative and especially perceptive. It came from a young Australian high school teacher who was soon to start exerting her own lifelong influence on millions of women and men. Her name? Helen Garner.\n\nReading what you write, I find my mind working fully and joyfully for the first time since \u2013 I was going to say since I had my daughter nearly 2 years ago but it has just struck me that it could well be since I was a child and read night and day in that drunken total way which I feared I would never do again.\n\nShe explained that she was a teacher at Fitzroy High School in Melbourne, that many of the young women at the school were reading the book and that she and other female teachers were chafing against the ignorance and condescension of many of their male colleagues.\n\nA lot of the young women at the school are reading your book and I know that it is encouraging us to feel that we are right when we know the men are talking shit and that it is time for us to say so and to start changing the school the way we know in our bones it must be changed . . .\n\nWhenever I am listening to one of the men talking shit to me about the value of corporal punishment or some such monstrosity and whenever I feel that awful feminine deference eroding my urge to fight back I call to mind your picture on the back of The Female Eunuch and I think 'Fuck, she wouldn't stand here silent, and neither will I.'41\n\nAnother letter, headed 'UNSOLICITED TESTIMONIAL', written before The Female Eunuch was published, was as enthusiastic, but even more prescient than Garner's. Germaine had sent the proofs of her book to Clive James, whose admiration of her work, to that point, had been touched with the wry cynicism of an old friend who knew her every mood. All of that changed when he read the proofs. 'It is without question the most important single thing yet to emerge from our generation of Australian exiles,' he wrote, 'polemically energetic in the most Shavian way, epigrammatic in a fashion that I knew you capable of in speech but not in prose, and above all assembled beyond anything I expected.'\n\nWhen he had first heard about her project, he continued, he had predicted it would turn out a joke. How wrong, he now admitted, he had been.\n\nWell, it has turned out a triumph and the measure of that is how it made me examine the assumptions by which I had decided it would be a joke. The book is aimed at me . . . it wasn't going to kick the romanticism out of me but it'll kick some daylight in.\n\nAllora. Fame is yours.42\n\nAn article first published in Rolling Stone magazine on 7 January 1971 provides a fascinating insight into the person Germaine Greer was in the short interval between The Female Eunuch's initial success and her subsequent fame. The writer of the article was Robert Greenfield, journalist and music critic, who was then on the staff of Rolling Stone.\n\nThe setting of Greenfield's report is a London film studio, on the set of a picture starring George Lazenby, the erstwhile James Bond, who was playing a gun runner who gave it all up for flower power. It is Sunday afternoon and the room is hazy and crowded; members of the cast lounge around in studied poses, smoking and drinking. Everyone is stoned and\/or drunk. Germaine Greer, silver-knit flapper's hat pulled over her ears, holds court in a corner of the room near Chrissie Shrimpton, who is 'drifting through a doorway like some Victorian butterfly'. Lazenby is around somewhere. In the film, Germaine is playing the sister of the female protagonist. The plot seems simple enough. 'George wants to fuck [the female lead],' Germaine explains sweetly. 'She says no. Peace, flowers, love. He asks her for some head. She says no. Well, the whole thing is unreal. She should plate him in the middle of the scene.'\n\nGreenfield is intrigued by the duality of Germaine's lifestyle. 'Although she tends to defy definitions and skirt boundaries,' he writes, 'Germaine exists primarily in two worlds \u2013 the \"I say old chap\" very British artsy-literary-academic sphere and the oop-shoop-shangalalang-a-jingabop of the music business.' She tells him about her trip to New York as a groupie, waking up in the hotel with the bodies of young rock stars all over the floor, everyone about to start the day with a joint. But she draws the line at heroin, which those same boys had asked her for the last time they were in England.\n\nThe day's interview closes with Germaine telling Greenfield that she has already been paid a great deal of money for her book and is about to make much more. She will need to go to America to avoid tax.\n\nTwo weeks later she and Greenfield meet again at the Charles Clore Pavilion in Regent's Park Zoo. Germaine, fresh from lunch with writers Ken Tynan and Mary McCarthy, is an hour late, smelling of gin. She talks again about her coming trip to the United States. She will not bond with the political feminists over there, she declares; she prefers ('digs') the Redstockings, a libertarian radical group whose views were closer to her own. Those women who were learning karate to fight men, she opined, would be better off making love to them.\n\nThat seemed to be Germaine's solution to everything, thought Greenfield. 'If your landlady is hassling you, ball her. Want better care from your doctor? Make it with him.'\n\nFive o'clock comes and the attendant wants to close the Mammal House, but Germaine hasn't seen the wombat.\n\n'It's closing time,' a zoo attendant shouts.\n\n'Where's the wombat?' Greer asks blithely, pushing past.\n\n'It's closed, lady,' the attendant explodes, red in the face. 'It's closed. Get out!'\n\n'I bet he hasn't gotten his rocks off in months.' Germaine says, turning to go back. 'What if I went down on him?'\n\nSomeone takes her arm and leads her gently away.43\n\nFor a short time after the publication and dramatic success of The Female Eunuch, Greer's relationship with her fellow editors and supporters of Suck remained, for the most part, cordial and occasionally intimate. Eventually, however, cracks developed in the Suck partnership that no amount of intimacy could paper over. Differences of belief and perception were always part of the enterprise, but significant shifts in Germaine's relationship with the other editors only started to occur after she became a celebrity. Jim Haynes and Bill Levy, her male co-editors, were proud of their colleague's phenomenal success, but they had difficulty coming to terms with it. Talented and ambitious as they and most of her friends of this time were, none was a match for her, and it was with mixed feelings that they began to realise she was moving up and away from them.\n\nMatters came to a head in 1972, when Germaine agreed to send some photographs of her naked self to Jim Haynes on the understanding that one would appear alongside pictures of all the editors of Suck, including Jean Shrimpton, that would be published in a book about the Wet Dream Film Festival. From Amsterdam, Purple Susan wrote that 'everyone' was waiting eagerly for the photographs to arrive, but she did not tell Germaine what Haynes and\/or Bill Levy were planning to do with them.\n\nAmong the photos was one of a naked Germaine in a yoga pose that showed her lying down with her splayed legs thrown back over her shoulders, her buttocks and genitalia presented to the camera and her raised-up face grinning mischievously through her legs. The photograph is clearly pornographic, but unlike most porn of the era, the woman, Germaine, is seen to be actively and happily in control, confronting the world through her legs, as opposed to appearing as a passive object.\n\nShe had thought that picture and others, including one of her naked, sucking her toenail, rather good, so she decided to let the Suck people keep them, but she was devastated when Jim Haynes or Bill Levy \u2013 or someone; it never quite became clear who was responsible \u2013 chose to publish her yoga-pose picture in the next edition (issue number 7) of Suck. Dismayed, she felt that this was not only a betrayal of her trust, but almost certainly a commercial decision, for by this time Germaine Greer, Celebrity, was ripe for exploitation. When Haynes chose to hawk that issue with its scandalous photograph of her around the Frankfurt Book Fair, she was distraught.\n\nKnowing my feelings about it and the fact that I was appalled at such a crass exploitation of the situation, you then took the SUCK in question and peddled it around the Frankfurt Book Fair. Now you may consider that I am very strong and can take whatever you dish out; that's pretty much like telling somebody they have a face that's made for kicking . . .\n\n'I am not ashamed of my collaboration with Suck in the past,' she concluded, 'but I think I'd have to be a raving maniac to associate with Suck in the future.'44\n\nHaynes, for his part, steadfastly maintained that it was not his but Bill Levy's decision to publish the photos, and that he had advised Bill to consult with her before printing.\n\n'I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH SUCK PUBLISHING YOUR PHOTOGRAPH,' he wrote to her in March 1973.45 And one year later:\n\nOur one-sided altercation has left me a bit shell-shocked. I say one-sided because I never felt any antagonism towards you, only frustration. I wanted to hug you tenderly and warmly and say 'Hey Germaine, it's me, Jim. I have done you no harm, why are you angry with me?'46\n\nGermaine was convinced that Haynes and Levy had used and exploited her. Haynes saw it differently. Their relationship, he believed, covered two distinct periods \u2013 pre\u2013 and post\u2013The Female Eunuch. In the first, carefree, period, they shared a kindred view. 'You were stimulating and exciting to work with and more and more I felt our friendship grow closer.' In the second, post-Eunuch period, he was proud of her, but he saw 'a steady and slow transformation . . . and during this period, which has not ended, you became more and more of a media personality and with this came pressures from all sides . . .'47\n\nHaynes continued to try to mend the relationship into the early 1990s ('Some people never learn, I know, but nevertheless I send you best wishes for the 90s.'48) but Germaine would have no part of him. When Sarah Harris from the publishers Faber & Faber approached her for a contribution to an autobiography he was writing, she replied acidly that she was unsympathetic to him and to his 'friendship industry', which struck her as 'facile and basically exploitative, as does American friendship in general, I regret to say'.49\n\nJim Haynes was right. The post\u2013Female Eunuch Germaine Greer was a very different person from her pre-Eunuch days \u2013 more aware of her commercial value, and warier of being exploited for it. As an international celebrity, she found herself living in a world where her every utterance might be reported or distorted in the media, and where spicy morsels of news about her private life were worth money and influence to informers. From carelessly blithe hippie she metamorphosed into a media-savvy professional. She remained loyal to some of her old friends in the counterculture, but her new fame and wealth set her apart from most of them, and many were envious of her success.\n\nAfter the Suck debacle, Germaine felt that being with some old friends had become an 'embarrassment and humiliation' so intense that she would have to abandon them.\n\nStuff it [Levy] might want to be a friend, but he behaves like an enemy and this is true of many other people who have been close to me and have done cute things like ring PRIVATE EYE with details of conversations that I have had with them . . . All of which is called exploitation . . . or parasitism . . . I am afraid I have given up a great many of my friends . . . Madness is catching and I feel sick and crazy . . .50\n\nIn an effort to maintain her academic career in the wake of the success of The Female Eunuch, she had initially chosen to take leave rather than resign from her job at the University of Warwick, but as she continued to struggle with the demands and pressures of promoting her book and her ideas, especially the necessary travel, she decided to seek new avenues for her talents. In 1972, she resigned from the university. Always inclined to be a loner, she now became alone in a more poignant sense \u2013 the private person behind the public celebrity.\n\nAn old Australian friend has described the Germaine Greer of the early 1970s as 'hungry and lustful \u2013 like most lapsed Catholic girls', but this underestimates her capacity for falling in love. She herself has said that she was never very good at love, and her life is testimony that her romantic relationships do not last. In several cases the imbalance between her brilliance, riches and phenomenal success, and the comparatively ordinary lives of her lovers, was part of the problem. This was almost certainly the case with Tony Gourvish, the man she was involved with when she was writing The Female Eunuch.\n\nAt the beginning of that relationship, Gourvish was doing well in his own right as a manager of the rock band Family. In 1970\u201371, this band was very successful: it had appeared on the same concert bill as the Rolling Stones and scored fifth in a Melody Maker popularity poll behind Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, The Who and Pink Floyd.51\n\nGourvish certainly seems to have been on Germaine's mind as she wrote some of her rough preliminary notes for The Female Eunuch: 'I LOVE YOU TONY XXXX', she scrawled at the bottom of one page of text, references for the 'Soul' section.52\n\nWhile on a major tour of the United States in 1971, Gourvish wrote to 'dearest Germaine' from Buffalo, New York, telling her that he found her letters 'an incredible turn-on'. He was disappointed that she would be unable to meet him at the airport, he said, but perhaps that would be better as 'I fear my emotions would run to tears of joy and love. Still you must ring me on the Wednesday night so that I can feel that much closer to you.' Upon his return he would share with her \u2013 'my love' \u2013 every detail about the tour, he would kiss her all over, and they would stay in bed 'all day and all night Friday, Saturday, Sunday, never let you up. No work for either of us!' For the whole of that tour, he wrote, he had felt close to her 'in mind and body'.53\n\nThis was the language of a committed relationship; they were living together and she had even taken to referring to him as her 'Old Man'. ('Old Lady' was also a term of choice for 'wives' of the counterculture.) She wrote to Lillian Roxon, asking her to spread the word about Gourvish and Family among her influential friends in New York and at Max's Kansas City. Gourvish, for his part, was trying to come to terms with Germaine's imminent success and fame: 'The cover of your book looks very together, and I [sic] really very happy for you, and for anything you do. NO BULLSHIT.'54\n\nBut by 1973 their love had cooled to a conflicted friendship as her wealth and fame increased and his diminished as Family, which had seemed so promising, failed to reach the heights of other groups like the Stones. She began to suspect that he was taking advantage of her generosity when he made free use of her car, a Mini Cooper, in London during her absences abroad. He had also taken to wearing her favourite wolf-fur coat, and seemed to believe it was his. From Italy she wrote to her secretary, Franki Roberts, asking her to repossess the car and to call the police if necessary. Tony was more astonished than appalled, but Germaine was feeling used, betrayed and suspicious. 'Cut the crap and tell me WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU UP TO instead of writing letters about how badly I'm treating you,' she wrote.55\n\nGourvish had believed Germaine was happy to share her possessions \u2013 that was the way of the counterculture, after all. And she had led him to believe that the coat was a present. 'Surely there must be some other reason for this attack,' he wrote. 'Am I to be held to blame because I cannot afford to buy the car? I would if I could . . . Please don't do this to me without understanding my complete lack of understanding as to what I have done.' But Germaine was obdurate. 'If you behave like a half-bred cretin you must expect people to be annoyed. Franki was going on her information, which was probably largely based on an impression she got of you as yet another one of my shitty friends (she's seen a few in action).'56\n\nThe friendship managed to limp along for a few more years. In 1976, she allowed him to live for a while in the basement flat at her house, but by the time he left she had had enough of what she believed to be ongoing exploitation of her good intentions towards him. She reminded him that he had failed to pay rent and bills. He argued that the few possessions he was leaving behind would square his debts.\n\nGermaine gave up on him. 'You have used and abused this house for less than \u00a320 a week,' she wrote scathingly. 'My attempts at explaining what I wanted were met with hysteria . . . In other words you dealt with me dishonestly and you are still doing so. In the past, I wrote off the wolf coat and the Mini. What I have done before I could have done again, except that this time I am writing you off because it wasn't even fun.'57\n\nThe American author Marilyn French said of Germaine Greer that she had a big soul. French could have added that Germaine was also generous and egalitarian by nature, not the type of person who would discard old friends on the climb to fame and fortune, neither of which she had deliberately set out to achieve. As time went on, however, and more of her friends behaved badly, she was increasingly suspicious of their motives. In some instances, her own motives were also questionable. Handing out largesse to less fortunate friends put her in a position of power. She expected gratitude, if not obeisance, but this was not always clear to those whom she had helped. Because she had encouraged them to see her as their equal, with no strings attached to her generosity, they were baffled when their Lady Bountiful turned on them and accused them of leeching off her.\n\nThus Jim Haynes's judgement appears to be vindicated: the success of Germaine Greer's first book brought about seismic changes, not only in her life circumstances but also in her psyche and the ways in which she related to her friends. In time, she managed to adjust to her new status, but much of her correspondence shows that she remained suspicious and conflicted \u2013 as attracted by promises of intimacy as she was wary of them. For the rest of her life she would make sure to keep frantically busy, warding off personal doubts and fears with productive activity. She would also get angry, often, for anger is an excellent defence mechanism.\n5\n\nThe commercialisation of Germaine Greer\n\n'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting,\n\nBid the world's hounds come to horn!\n\nEzra Pound, 'The White Stag'\n\nOn 7 September 1968, four hundred feminists gathered on the Atlantic City Boardwalk outside the Miss America Pageant to protest what they called 'the degrading, mindless boob-girlie system'. The women marched and shouted slogans; they carried placards, gave out pamphlets and even crowned a hapless live sheep to illustrate the similarities between pageants and livestock competitions at county fairs. The marchers also threw a number of female-targeted products into a 'Freedom Trash Can'. These objects included false eyelashes, high-heeled shoes, pots and pans, make-up, girdles, corsets and bras. Nothing was burned on this occasion because the protesters couldn't get a permit \u2013 the Atlantic City Boardwalk was made of wood \u2013 but this did not prevent the media from inventing stories of how the women had burned numerous items of underwear, most notably their brassieres.\n\nThis was the era when anti-Vietnam protesters were burning all sorts of things \u2013 their draft cards, the American flag, whatever else came to hand \u2013 and the bra-burning story provided a brilliant counterpoint to those activities, never mind that it wasn't true. The press response to the Atlantic City protests was predictable \u2013 crazy women, 'dykes', 'commies', 'uglies' doing crazy things, attacking the foundations of American society, an insult to decent women, where would it all end, and so on. At least some of the newspaper reports were funny. Pulitzer Prize winner Art Buchwald, writing in the New York Post, suggested a few things no one else had thought of. American women, he said, beautiful though they undoubtedly were, needed all the help they could get to stay attractive to men. And thanks to the boundless efforts of science and the beauty industries they were getting it: 'it is now impossible for anyone to know where God leaves off and Maidenform takes over'. The protesting women might believe that by getting rid of the beauty 'hardware' they would gain sexual independence, but they were mistaken, he opined. Even with all the aids presently at her disposal, a woman was hard-pressed to distract a male from his manly pursuit of making money long enough for him to look at her. Without those aids she would be finished; the clock would be turned back to those cave-dwelling days when men liked to batter women about the head without even glancing at them.\n\nIt was only, after the women started rubbing petals on themselves, and putting dust on their cheeks and red clay in their hair, that the men stopped batting them around.\n\nAs we saw in Chicago, there are still many men who would like to club women over the head, if they're given the slightest excuse, and there's no better excuse for hitting a woman than the fact that she looks just like a man.1\n\nBuchwald, of course, was joking, but some media commentators expressed similar sentiments without a hint of irony.\n\nThe antics of the media-created 'uglies', 'dogs' and 'commies' remained newsworthy into the 1970s, but the savvier commentators recognised that the commercial value of unattractive women is limited even when they are being pilloried; ultimately, they become a bore. It is the glamour factor that sells magazines and television programs. Beautiful faces, long legs, glamorous poses, shimmering dresses, airbrushed everything. Outrageous unfeminine behaviour had sparked media interest in the new movement, but how long would it last? How long would women's lib survive if it remained the preserve of Ugly Bettys?\n\nThis absence of the glamour factor in women's liberation was a relatively minor issue for the media, but it was a much greater problem for the feminists. No individual provides a better example of this than Kate Millett, a committee member of Betty Friedan's NOW, whose groundbreaking book Sexual Politics was published in the United States only a few months before The Female Eunuch. Originating from her PhD dissertation, the book vigorously attacked romantic love ('a means of emotional manipulation which the male is free to exploit'), monogamous marriage and the nuclear family ('patriarchy's chief institution'). Memorably, Millett pounced on the sexism in books by the male novelists D.H. Lawrence, Henry Miller and Norman Mailer. In its first year of publication Sexual Politics sold eighty thousand copies and was reprinted six times. In August 1970, Millett was featured in a Time cover story, 'The Politics of Sex', which called her book 'remarkable' and congratulated her on having provided a coherent theory about the feminist movement.\n\nBut writer and supreme male chauvinist Norman Mailer was lying in wait for her. In his essay for Harper's Magazine, 'The Prisoner of Sex', he called her 'a pug-nosed wit' and a 'Battling Annie'. She had no proper literary sense, he asserted; how dare she question the genius of writers like Lawrence and Miller (and, by implication, himself)?2\n\nThe turning point for Millett came when she was speaking about sexual liberation at Columbia University in November 1970. A woman in the audience asked her to declare herself a lesbian. Kate hesitated, then responded quietly: 'Yes, I am a lesbian.' Only a couple of weeks later, on 8 December 1970, in an article titled 'Women's lib: A second look', Time commented that Millett's 'admission' would cause people to turn away from feminism in the belief that all feminists were lesbians. That did happen, and members of the movement, including Betty Friedan, did not thank her for it. Nor did gay activists, who censured her for not coming out sooner.\n\nMillett later argued that it was at this time, with the publication of Time's second piece, that the figure of the feminist as lesbian first became fully manifest in the press and popular culture. She may have overestimated her influence, however. The stereotype is hundreds, if not thousands, of years old, apparent in stories of the burning of witches and many other forms of abuse. In the early twentieth century the media had seized on it to discredit the feminists of the first wave, and some journalists were now sharpening their knives to do it again for the second.\n\nMillett continued her work into the twenty-first century, but she was a tortured soul, plagued by personal trauma, bouts of serious mental illness, hospital admissions and treatment with electro-shock therapy. For a few months after the publication of Sexual Politics the media had tried to turn her into a celebrity, but lust for fame and wealth was not in her. 'Microphones shoved into my mouth . . . \"What is the future of the women's movement?\" How the hell do I know \u2013 I don't run it . . . The whole thing is sordid, embarrassing, a fraud . . . I'm vomiting with terror . . . why have you made me a curiosity?' she wrote.3\n\nThe demons that caused the sensitive Millett to flee publicity were foreign to Germaine Greer. She was excited by the power of the media to generate change (as well as fortunes and power for performers like herself). She relished the irony that those very media outlets might use their influence to shame gullible females into awareness of the humiliating circumstances of their lives.\n\nMost of her life [the average housewife] has served fashion without demur, and now the media have created the fashion of female liberation. At last the fucking media look like they are hoist with their own petard.4\n\nGreer and her publicists also realised that while portraying feminists as freaky lesbians had solid news value, the ethics of this approach were questionable and its appeal was likely to sour. As an attention-getter, women's liberation had started a new trend, but the trend was based on the 'tiny' reality of elites like NOW, the Redstockings, the New York Radical Women movement (organisers of the Atlantic City Miss America protest) and the rapidly proliferating groups of local consciousness-raisers. These women were exceptional but not mainstream.\n\nOf course, most women are not radical leftists, or unmarried university students, and the luxury of such theorising is not accessible to them in any way at all. Mrs. Smith who tends a bottling machine by day and husband and kids morning and night has no use for a reading list however exhaustive.5\n\nUntil and unless a new angle could be found, the second-wave feminist movement would be in danger of becoming a modern, but no more attractive or useful, version of the first wave. The images of ill-fitting suits, shapeless felt hats and threatening umbrellas would be replaced by sagging breasts, hairy legs and smelly underarms. In popular culture, the women of the new feminism might well go the dowdy way of the old.\n\nGermaine Greer arrived in New York early in 1971 to commence her promotional tour for The Female Eunuch. No longer the relatively unknown person who Lillian Roxon had sent off to the sleazy Broadway Central Hotel a couple of years earlier, she was now a celebrity, accompanied everywhere by her own British television crew.\n\nThe tour began with a disagreement between Greer and McGraw-Hill, her American publishers, about where she would stay in New York. They had booked her into the famous Algonquin Hotel, a sophisticated retreat for the classier members of the international literati. But Germaine did not yet consider herself to be classy. She was still a groupie and she wanted her friends from the rock and underground scenes to be able to visit her and enjoy having sex with her as she and they pleased. So she demanded that her booking be changed to the Chelsea Hotel, famous refuge of writers, musicians and artists, where she knew she would be in congenial company.\n\nBob Dylan had lived at the Chelsea Hotel; Nancy Spungen would be found stabbed to death there, allegedly by her boyfriend, the Sex Pistols' Sid Vicious; Dylan Thomas was taken from his room in the hotel to the hospital where he died; Leonard Cohen's song 'Chelsea Hotel No. 2' is about a sexual encounter he once had at the Chelsea with Janis Joplin.\n\nGermaine's publicists did not quite get it, but, mindful of her market value, they tried. They even sent a basket of fruit up to her room as a welcoming gesture. 'I guess they consider it inappropriate to send flowers to a female revolutionary,' Germaine later commented.6\n\nPerhaps it was because she was the daughter of an advertising man that Germaine realised the value of the glamour factor in journalism. As her comments about Mrs Smith at her bottling machine show, she was keenly aware that most women did not want to read some frustrated academic's complicated theories about female oppression; nor did they want to spend their lives tut-tutting over untidy-looking women who wore no make-up and refused to shave their legs or use deodorant. Mrs Smith and her sisters craved excitement, and Germaine Greer was happy to give it to them.\n\nIn the May 1971 edition of the high fashion magazine Vogue, Germaine appeared as the glamorous face of feminism alongside all the other long-legged, airbrushed models. The main black-and-white picture, which now hangs in London's National Portrait Gallery, depicts her sitting on a beanbag, long legs askew, wearing low-heeled knee-high boots, a skirt and scarf, and a paisley-patterned coat that she made herself (and which is now displayed in the National Museum of Australia). Her natural eyebrows have been plucked to extinction and replaced by carefully pencilled arches, reminiscent of Greta Garbo. Her hair is luxuriant and make-up highlights her eyes. Around her, the walls are covered in necklaces, bags, bracelets and scarves. In this picture she is enigmatically straight-faced, even deadpan, but in other photos of the series she is laughing, her head thrown back.\n\nThese fabulous, now-famous Vogue photographs were taken by society photographer, and husband of Princess Margaret, Lord Snowdon.\n\nVogue had also invited Kate Millett to be interviewed but, according to Kathleen Tynan, the author of the article that accompanied the pictures, she declined because such magazines perpetuated a negative image of women as objects of ornament rather than as persons. A small photo of Millett appears alongside Snowdon's photographs of Greer. She is smiling in a friendly way.\n\nTynan's article opens with a flattering description of Greer's appearance: '. . . just under 6 feet tall, boldly dressed and bra-less with a long pre-Raphaelite face and a voice that can be coaxingly soft or stridently vulgar . . .' Millett, whom Tynan had met previously at a launch party for Sexual Politics, is described as 'short, rather plump, with long brown hair, a particularly soft voice and an open smile'. Millett's book is erudite, says Tynan, and she is a hardliner, but it is Greer who makes us laugh.\n\nAnd so, Germaine Greer, tall, glamorous, beautiful, funny, is positioned as the insouciant face of the new feminism against poor short and dumpy Kate, who takes herself too seriously. Tynan does not neglect to mention Millet's sexual orientation, contrasting it with Greer's cheerful heterosexuality: 'Germaine can't understand why you should mind if you make it with her man.'7\n\nThe hype continued. 'Saucy Feminist That Even Men Like', announced the famous headline on the cover of Life magazine on 7 May 1971. In the cover photograph Germaine Greer is sitting with her feet up on a park bench. She is utterly carefree, laughing, pointing at something behind the camera, multiple rings on her fingers and silver bangles on her wrists. She is wearing a dress of a dark material, flat-heeled shoes and her paisley patterned coat. Her hair looks wild and free, but was probably expensively arranged to look that way; she is professionally made-up. Inside, five more photos show her in a variety of roles \u2013 the academic leading a seminar at Warwick University, the suede-skirted free spirit collecting firewood in the English countryside, the activist marching in an anti-Vietnam war protest and, perhaps most tellingly, the laughing hippie, cuddling up to filmmaker Dick Fontaine on a bed in the Chelsea Hotel. 'The feminist who is against sexism but not sex' is the caption to a photo of a pensive Germaine sitting on a paisley couch.\n\nThus the image was built. Greer's views on unrestricted heterosexual sexuality complemented the glamour factor as she challenged women to replace submissiveness with 'cuntpower'. The American media would feast on this beautiful woman who was telling everybody to go out and enjoy good, feisty sex. 'Why does Hamlet let Ophelia die?' asks a student at the Warwick seminar described in the Life article. 'Because she's such a bore! That's why he lets her die,' Greer replies. 'Because she's such an insipid and disloyal little bitch.'\n\nMiss Greer was everything those messy American feminists were not: pretty, predictable, aggressively heterosexual, media-wise, clever, foreign, and exotic . . . Her philosophy, as outlined in The Female Eunuch, could be expected to appeal to men: women's liberation means that women will be sexually liberated; feminism equals free love. Here was a libbie a man could like.8\n\nThe message was clear. Away with all the Ophelias who were boring their husbands shitless, and in with Petruchio's Kate, who would give them a run for their money! What was not to like about that?\n\nThe Greer publicity machine was running hot. On 18 May, soon after the publication of the Life cover story, Germaine became the first woman ever to address the National Press Club in Washington. This was a momentous occasion for the Press Club, which had only recently opened its doors to women. The president of the club introduced her as 'an attractive, intelligent, sexually liberated woman' and a lecturer at 'Wor-wick University'. She spoke about the appalling ways newspapers treated women \u2013 their trivialisation of issues like childcare, breast cancer and contraception. Remarking on the fact that women were generally represented not as real women but as fantasy creatures who appeared only as adjuncts to the men, she reminded the press of their professional obligation to speak for the whole population, rather than just the male half of it.\n\nAt the conclusion of her speech the president presented her with a National Press Club tie. She said it would be useful to keep her hair out of her eyes when she marched in demonstrations. To a question from the floor: 'If there were only three people left on earth, yourself, Teddy Kennedy and Norman Mailer, who would you choose?' she replied that if she had to breed with either it would be better if the earth came to an end immediately. The audience loved her. At the conclusion of the performance \u2013 for a performance it was \u2013 she stayed on for several hours drinking in the bar with the mostly male journalists.9\n\nThe address at the National Press Club followed one that became the most talked-about and powerful performance of her American tour. This was her starring role in a 'dialogue' on women's liberation between herself, three other feminists and the archenemy of the women's libbers, Norman Mailer.\n\nMailer, born into a Jewish family in 1923, was famous as a journalist, novelist, filmmaker and political activist. His novels are intensely physical; his (always male) heroes seek love that is inevitably orgasmic, body-oriented, power-hungry and usually violent. His books are filled with graphic, vicious depictions of sex.\n\nMarried six times, Mailer had nine children. In 1960, at a party, he stabbed his second wife, Adele, with a penknife, puncturing her pericardium and nearly killing her. She refused to press charges but he was convicted of assault and given a suspended sentence. Feminists often pointed to this incident as an example of the sexual violence that, they believed, lay at the heart of his work.\n\nDark, brooding, Byronic \u2013 few women could resist him. Germaine, always susceptible to the type, confessed that she 'wanted to fuck' him long before she met him in New York. He was interested in her, too, and the commercial potential of bringing these two powerfully attracted adversaries together was clear to many, including the two protagonists. The event would be:\n\na nuptial ceremony celebrating the amorous public encounter of the chief representatives of the warring factions: the educated goddess from abroad and the general of books and machismo at home. The warring parties found each other attractive.10\n\nIt was arranged that the debate would take place in New York University's Town Hall on 30 April 1971, under the banner of the Theatre of Ideas, an organisation that had produced similar evenings of intellectual performance. 'It became a standing joke,' wrote Germaine later, 'that I would seduce Norman Mailer and prove to the breathlessly waiting world that he was . . . the world's worst. In an article for Listener, I wrote that I half expected him to blow his head off in \"one last killer come\" like Ernest Hemingway.'11\n\nKate Millett had refused an invitation to participate in the debate, as had prominent feminists Gloria Steinem, Ti-Grace Atkinson and Robin Morgan. Those who had accepted, alongside Germaine, were Jill Johnston and Diana Trilling, both literary feminists, and Jacqui Ceballos, head of the New York chapter of NOW. The plan was that these would be the women who would bring Mailer's sexual fantasies to life in front of a national audience of notables, who had paid the then large sum of US$25 for the privilege. Like the hero of The Prisoner of Sex, he would have:\n\nthat particular part of his ghost phallus which remained in New York \u2013 his very reputation in residence \u2013 not only . . . ambushed, but . . . chewed half to death by a squadron of enraged Amazons, an honor guard of revolutionary (if only we could see them) vaginas.12\n\nIt emerged later that, in the lead-up to the debate, Mailer was privately organising publication rights for a book with the New American Library, instead of McGraw-Hill, the usual publisher for materials arising from the Theatre of Ideas. He had also supplied D.A. Pennebaker with funding to film the debate. (The full documentary movie that arose from this footage, Town Bloody Hall, which was released in 1979, survives to this day as a powerful record of the night's events.)13\n\nAt the time, the female participants in the debate, including Germaine, knew nothing of Mailer's entrepreneurial activities. 'The Mailer\u2013Women's Liberation title fight,' Germaine later wrote, 'was being set up for maximum exploitation, yet none of the women knew anything about it.'14\n\nGreer met Mailer before the debate in a 'snot-green' dressing room at the Town Hall where, she said, he was being photographed like a matinee idol.\n\n'You're better looking than I thought,' he greeted her.\n\n'I know,' she replied coolly.15\n\nIn her account of this meeting Greer does not mention that her own photographers and publicists were there alongside Mailer's. Nor does she mention that Mailer was holding up for the photographers not his own book Prisoner of Sex, but The Female Eunuch.\n\nShe had been doing her homework on his latest book and, in her notes for the debate, she had written on a card his own remarks about D.H. Lawrence:\n\n. . . yet [he] was locked into the body of a middling male physique, not physically strong, of reasonable good looks, a pleasant to somewhat seedy-looking man, no stud.16\n\nHer intention was to use them to attack Mailer at an opportune moment in the debate.\n\nGermaine's attire for the evening was variously reported as 'elegance, furs and jewellery', but the reality was that her choice of a strappy, ten-shilling black dress ('slinky') and cheap fox fur (one pound at a market) was designed to mock the Hollywood fantasies of middle-class American women. The local press did not catch the joke, but as Pennebaker's film shows, Germaine did look elegant in spite of herself, and the sexual tension between her naked-shouldered self and Mailer was palpable.\n\nThe audience was as celebrated as the debaters. Betty Friedan was there with an entourage, as were people like Susan Sontag, Stephen Spender and Sargent Shriver. 'Obviously,' said Jill Johnston, 'somebody had spread the word that you didn't count if you didn't make it to this one.'17\n\nJohnston herself was planning to misbehave. Widely known as a crazy lesbian feminist with extreme views, she had started the evening drinking with friends and co-conspirators at the Algonquin Hotel. Lurking in the Town Hall lobby before the 'Command Performance', coffee-to-go in one hand, baby bottle of martini in the other, she intended to leap across the orchestra pit 'Fairbanks style', storm the stage and open the proceedings by kissing Germaine. But Shirley Broughton, the organiser of the evening, managed to outwit her, and she found herself embracing Germaine behind the closed curtain.\n\nJohnston was an outsider in women's liberation circles. A year before the debate, Betty Friedan had denounced her lesbianism, declaring her to be 'the biggest enemy of the movement'. Now she was mischievously delighted to defy Friedan and the rest at this gold-plated event.\n\nSo here was a sick, dirty, dangerous lesbian appearing on sacred puritan anglo-Jewish territory and by their own invitation.18\n\nLike everyone else, Johnston knew in advance that it was Germaine Greer, that unlikely 'provincial from Australia', who was the drawcard.\n\n[I]t was the preference of the moderator for a glamorous impudent foreigner from Australia which made this event very much what it was supposed to be. The prospect herself satisfied everybody's expectations by her advance interest in the moderator. Germaine's obsession with Norman seemed to me in fact foreign and embarrassing. She had already told me she wouldn't mind fucking him.19\n\nThe women gave their speeches in alphabetical order, with Jacqui Ceballos going first. Germaine, seated at Mailer's right, was second; she was introduced by Mailer as 'that distinguished, young and formidable lady writer, Miss Germaine Greer, from England'.\n\nIn a well-modulated Australian\/British\/American accent, Greer spoke about the aggressive dominance of the masculine artist in Western culture. Her speech was thoroughly researched, well prepared and erudite. Norman Mailer accused her of 'diaper Marxism' but otherwise held his pose of gallant adjudicator. He and Germaine appeared to be exchanging private jokes.\n\nThe real fun started when Jill, the third speaker, got up to speak. She was wearing patched jeans and a jacket with a Union Jack patch sewn to the sleeve, the purpose of which seemed to be to show that she was the true Brit, not Germaine, as Mailer had declared. She started with an attack on Greer's provincialism.\n\n'Were you born in Australia?'\n\nGermaine (graciously): 'Yes, I was.'\n\nJill (aggressively): 'I was born in England. I can't help it. That was just the first thing I thought of.'\n\nShe continued with her speech: 'All women are lesbians except those who don't know it yet . . .' The audience listened politely.\n\nShe made a couple of jokes. Mailer was not amused. He said her time was up. 'You've written your letter, now mail it, Jill!'\n\nThen, suddenly, two women, dressed like Jill in torn jeans and jackets, crashed onto the stage and started to kiss and fondle each other. Laughing, Jill joined them on the floor and they all writhed about for a bit. The audience roared.\n\nMailer forgot to behave like an old-world gentleman. 'It's great that you pay $25 to see three dirty overalls on the floor when you can see lots of cock and cunt for $4 just down the street,' he shouted.\n\nThe party was getting dirty. 'C'mon, Jill, be a lady,' he begged, but she was determined to continue with her speech. He decided to call a popular vote as to whether she should be allowed to continue. 'If you don't think I've got enough fairness to do the count properly you can come and get this mic away from me,' he shouted at the audience.\n\nA vote was taken and the 'No's won \u2013 or so he decided \u2013 and Jill left the stage with her giggling companions.\n\nAfter this, Diana Trilling's speech, delivered in an up-market, supercilious drawl, was anticlimactic. Obviously bored, Germaine tried to upstage her by passing little notes to Mailer. Trilling showed that she did not think much of her as she needled her into a verbal stoush, which a disdainful Germaine clearly won, remarking wearily that it was characteristic of 'oppressed people' that they fought among themselves. She was right. The debate was starting to look like a bitch-fight between the warring feminists on one side and Germaine and Norman on the other. She never got to use her D.H. Lawrence quote on him.\n\nBy question time the audience was well warmed up. Mailer tried manfully to assert control but he was outclassed. 'Be accurate, Betty,' he admonished Betty Friedan, who asked the first question. 'Norman, I will define accuracy for myself,' she replied acerbically. Then Susan Sontag quietly took him up on his use of the word 'lady'. He vowed never to say it in public again, then proceeded to do so at least three more times in the next five minutes.\n\nWhen asked what colour ink he dipped his balls in to write, Mailer delighted the audience when he replied 'yellow', but he reverted to low-class nastiness when he called one female member of the audience 'Cunty', and screamed 'Fuck you!' at another. At times, he appeared to lose his cool completely. 'I'm not going to sit here and let you harridans harangue me.'\n\nPennebaker's cameras rolled.\n\nGermaine was enjoying herself, throwing back her mane of hair as she laughed and continued to exchange private jokes with Mailer. Apart from one moment of exasperation, when she coined the peculiarly Australian phrase 'Town Bloody Hall', she had, to use Mailer's language, behaved like a 'lady'. (Afterwards she credited her convent education for keeping her to the rules of the debate.) It was not until the final question that she unleashed her talons upon a hapless member of the audience, the writer Anatole Broyard.\n\n'I would like to ask Germaine Greer, as having a peculiar aptitude for this question, to describe, perhaps in the form of a one-act play, what it would be like to be a woman and to have the initiation and consummation of a sexual contact. . . .' he announced sententiously.\n\nIt was at that moment, Germaine said later, that she felt Mailer's hackles rise with hers. Simultaneously they sensed the weakness in this foolish creature and smelled his blood. 'Attagirl! Sick him,' Mailer hissed as Greer closed in on her prey.\n\n'Why do you ask that question?' she demanded icily.\n\nThe atmosphere in the hall became electric as her capacity to inflict pain was laid bare.\n\n'I tried to make my question un-polemical,' he protested.\n\n'Balls you did!'\n\nThe young man floundered. 'I don't know what women are asking for. Now suppose I wanted to give it to them . . .'\n\nGermaine went in for the kill.\n\n'You might as well relax, honey, because whatever they're asking for, it's not for you.'20\n\nAnd so, to the delighted applause of the audience, the debate ended. Mailer invited Germaine for a drink after the program, but she declined. She also declined to have sex with him. Suck magazine was prepared to pay her for an account of a bedroom scene, she said, but it never happened. 'I liked Mailer, but not enough. I disliked him too, and that's not enough either.'21 Part of her was becoming sickened by the media's (and Mailer's) rapacious attempts to exploit her as Norman's love object. It is also possible that she was finally getting over her obsession with men of his type. She had loved several in Melbourne and had suffered at least one breakdown for her pains; she had lived with one for a year or so in Sydney and had married another for three weeks in London. It was time to move on.\n\nTaking a yellow cab back to the Chelsea after the debate, she was attracted by the cab driver, David, a much younger and more malleable type than Mailer. She would form a relationship with him.\n\nMy cab was being driven by a corrupt child of my own generation [Mailer was sixteen years her senior] with a white angelic face (marked a little from experiences on the streets and in reform school) who was to become famous on the West Coast as my 'bodyguard'.22\n\nIn 1979, the famous Anglo-American journalist Christopher Hitchens went to see Town Bloody Hall with his friend John Marquand. Writing to Germaine afterwards, he told her he had thought she looked 'exceptionally beautiful'. 'Miss Trilling is a pretentious bore,' he declared, and as for Jill Johnston, 'that daft tart . . . she is revealed as a crypto-bully girl'. But it was Germaine's put-down of Broyard, the 'smug, ignorant twerp of an art dealer', that delighted him most. 'Marquand, who knows him slightly, clapped until his palms were sore. Likewise the rest of us.'23\n\nThe Mailer debate proved good for business. As the Female Eunuch promotional tour continued across America the hype intensified, sales of the book went up and up and the media (and the author) reaped immense profits. Most reviews were lightweight, for the press was more interested in her appearance, sexuality and personal charisma than serious feminist arguments, but it was largely because of the publicity that Greer's more complex ideas started to reach their intended audience \u2013 the women of America. She became their first convincing feminist role model. When they sat down to watch television at the end of their days of cooking, cleaning and driving their children to school, they could view this charismatic woman trading jokes and verbal blows with top male talk-show performers like Johnny Carson, David Frost, David Susskind and Dick Cavett. Hers was the new face of feminism \u2013 not a drab, angry old man-hater with whom they could never identify, but a young, educated, beautiful woman who was on their side, who gave voice to their deepest misgivings about their lives, and who was pointing the way to what they might become. Wives who watched the shows with their husbands had a whole new armoury with which to argue for their freedom, and the husbands were thrown off guard by this woman's personal attractiveness.\n\nGermaine knew exactly what was going on.\n\nThe only reason . . . I ever submit to the commercialization of Germaine Greer is to help women in the home, to raise the self-image of women, to spread the movement on the widest possible base. My aim is to demonstrate that everything could be otherwise, and joyously otherwise.24\n\nAmong Germaine Greer's many television successes on the US tour was her appearance on the high rating late-night talk program The Dick Cavett Show for a 90-minute discussion among panellists who represented different ideological positions about feminist issues. On 14 and 15 June, after one successful performance as a guest, Germaine hosted the show. She chose not to play the role of independent adjudicator of the various opinions, but rather to use the program as a platform for her own ideas. On her first night the topic was birth control and abortion, on the second it was rape.\n\nThe availability of the Germaine Greer Archive has opened up dramatic new possibilities for researchers to assess the impact of her television appearances on the lives of ordinary people. The archive includes over four hundred letters written by viewers who watched those two episodes of The Dick Cavett Show in June 1971. Of these letters, about 80 per cent are positive.\n\nThe minority who criticised her claimed that she had gone beyond her role as moderator to impose her opinions on the panellists. A Mrs Wardell N. Weeden called her 'a pompous ass who has no business sitting in the interviewer's seat'. One woman wished a 'social disease' upon her; others described her as 'disgusting' and 'looking like a worn-out whore'. Most of the negative letters were from women and most criticised her appearance \u2013 her 'unkempt' hair, her failure to wear a bra, her 'gaudy' attire.\n\nThe majority of viewers who wrote to Greer after watching the show, however, commented on her intelligence, honesty and courage in facing issues that other television performers avoided because they were too controversial or too difficult. One woman, commenting on the abortion discussion, wrote, 'It is a fresh breeze to hear the taboo words of menstruation, ovulation etc. discussed in open conversation. The import to individual women of now being included in polite conversation that goes somewhere is immense.'\n\nRebecca Sheehan, lecturer in US History at the University of Sydney, who researched these letters in depth, recognised that their study opens up new possibilities for understanding how feminist ideas were disseminated, to 'write expanded and more nuanced histories of second-wave feminism and its reception, and to remember that movements do not operate in a vacuum'.\n\nThrough Greer, feminism moved from the theoretical realm to the worlds of everyday people, where it had the potential to make a real difference . . .\n\nIn the force of their comments and the very fact that these letters were written . . . these viewers tell us how extraordinary it was to see a woman such as Germaine Greer on television in 1971.25\n\nSheehan also remarked on the 'tensions' between Greer and prominent American feminists at this time. Germaine, who since her convent days had refused to conform to any orthodoxy, was never about to become a paid-up member of the sisterhood. Many feminist critics were galled at her book's success. They were enraged when male critics like Christopher Lehmann-Haupt of the New York Times compared it favourably with Millett's ('it is everything that Millett's book is not') and furious that, in contrast to Millett's castigation of men for their brutality against women, Greer, as she annoyingly admitted, appeared to like them.\n\nInevitably, Germaine's media masters often arranged for her to speak on the same platforms as other prominent feminists. Her own accounts of two of these encounters are revealing. In one, which appeared in The Guardian on 8 February 2006, after the death of Betty Friedan, she recalled how, in 1972, she, Betty and Helvi Sipil\u00e4 of the United Nations had been guests of the Women's Organization of Iran.26\n\nShe began her account by dissociating herself from Friedan's central beliefs about the causes of women's subjugation.\n\nAccording to Betty, what happened was that women's sexuality was emphasised at the expense of all their other talents and attributes. What Betty saw as sexuality, I saw as the denial and repression of female sexuality. The Female Eunuch was conceived in reaction to The Feminine Mystique.27\n\nThen she went on to tell of how the Shah of Iran, who was still in power at that time, had placed some of his courtiers at the women's disposal. According to her, these men found Betty's imperiousness utterly disconcerting and they struggled to meet her unreasonable demands. It was the same with the elegantly dressed aristocratic ladies with bleached hair who were the feminists' escorts. Again and again, said Greer, these ladies begged her to explain Betty's behaviour. 'Please, Mrs Greer, she behaves so strangely, we think she may be drinking. She shouts at us, and when we try to explain she walks away. Sometimes her speech is strange.'28\n\nGermaine was irritated by the way Betty insisted on taking over her, Germaine's, allotted speaking time, and by her complaints about younger feminists (like her) who talked dirty. As they travelled around in an air-conditioned Cadillac, Betty, refusing to speak to the other women, would rest her head against the leather seats and close her eyes. Eventually, tired of her companion's antics and of pretending to admire contrived examples of the Shah's achievements, Germaine organised a side-trip for herself to Shiraz University. The night before the trip, Betty swept into her room, 'fetchingly clad for bed in a cascade of frills and flounces'. 'Whuttzes extra trip they've laid on for tomorrow?' she demanded to know. 'I've told them to cancel it! I've done enough!' By that time Germaine had come to know Betty well enough to refrain from telling her that the trip had not been arranged to include her. Diplomatically, she allowed her to believe the visit had been cancelled and she went alone, as planned.\n\nAt the end of the tour, after the farewell party, Friedan was furious when she discovered that the male dignitaries and ministers all had their own cars to take them back to their hotels, while she was expected to share a Cadillac with Germaine and Helvi. Already seated in the car, the two women looked on while Betty, refusing to get in, stood in front of the Cadillac in her spangled crepe de Chine, yelling, 'I will nutt be quiet and geddina car. Absolutely nutt!' Eventually, another car was sent for her.\n\nIn her closing remarks, perhaps realising that her comments were in the nature of an obituary, Greer made a belated attempt to set the record straight.\n\nBetty was disconcerted by lesbianism, leery of abortion and ultimately concerned for the men whose ancient privileges she feared were being eroded. Betty was actually very feminine, very keen on pretty clothes and very responsive to male attention, of which she got rather more than you might think. The world will be a tamer place without her.29\n\nJill Johnston wrote another account of Germaine Greer's touring experiences with an American feminist \u2013 in this case herself. This article appeared in the Village Voice on 22 April 1971, just eight days before the Town Hall debate. Johnston had been scheduled to appear with Greer in a 'TV thing' called The Arnold Zenker Show in Baltimore. She described how she met Germaine at the station and they took a taxi to the Sheraton hotel, where Jill asked Germaine if she wanted to share a nightcap. Initially, Germaine refused, but then she changed her mind and the two women settled in at the bar for a discussion about their sex lives. Germaine ordered a large beer. She confided to Jill that she always wore skirts to cover her 'big ass' (interesting in view of her comments, made half a century later, about Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard: 'You've got a big arse, Julia, just get on with it!')\n\nJill asked her how long it had been since she had been in love.\n\n'Not for ten or fifteen years,' she replied. (Roelof?) But she was in love with Jamaica.\n\nThen, according to Jill, 'she tells me how a black lesbian she knows sometimes gets it off on her'. Germaine followed this up with an account of how she once 'fixed up' a young couple who were unable to please each other sexually. The female 'fell for' Germaine, who was able to teach her what she needed to know to satisfy her boyfriend. Germaine then did the same for the bloke. He too fell in love with her, but eventually they got it all sorted out and the two young lovers lived happily ever after.30\n\nJill claimed that, later in the night, on her way to bed, Germaine rapped on her door twice. Jill decided not to accept the implied invitation.\n\nThe next morning, 7.30, at breakfast, Jill found herself admiring Germaine's breasts in her knit wool top. She wondered why she plucked her eyebrows.31\n\nGermaine's friendship with Lillian Roxon endured during her promotional tour of the United States \u2013 but only just, as the tensions in the relationship grew. Lillian was still living in the flat which Germaine had declared to be full of cockroaches. Her book, Lillian Roxon's Rock Encyclopedia, published late in 1969, was widely acclaimed as an authority on popular music culture. She continued to be a valued friend of many of the cream of rock culture in New York and a regular at Max's Kansas City, but her health was deteriorating badly. Working full-time as a journalist as well as writing and promoting her Encyclopedia had taken a huge toll, and her asthma was becoming life-threatening.\n\nGermaine made the most of her limited time in New York during the tour in 1971 and on subsequent visits, choosing to stay at the Chelsea, live as rambunctiously as the publicity machine and tight schedules would allow, and immerse herself in the culture at Max's. Lillian was still smarting from Germaine's remarks about her in the Earth Rose column of Suck magazine, where her supposed friend had identified her by name and suggested that anyone who wanted group sex in New York and who liked 'fat girls' should contact her. Nor could she ever forgive Germaine for her remarks in the dedication to The Female Eunuch.\n\n'Germaine Greer and her double-edged dedication changed my life and is she ever proud of herself!' she wrote to the editor of the Australian publication Nation on 15 May 1971. And to Germaine: '. . . it was both flattering and devastating to be in the dedication. I realised how devastating when someone said to me: \"That chick must sure hate you.\" I'll have to learn to live with it.'32\n\nBut Lillian had no doubts as to the quality of The Female Eunuch. She was 'knocked out by it'.\n\nI think it is an extremely important book though I'm willing to bet that you, characteristically, don't know what the important parts are. It's such a virtuoso performance that one is dazzled by that and it takes a while to pick up on what the book is really saying . . . Better than Millet's book, it affected me more than The Second Sex [by Simone de Beauvoir] . . . I spent all weekend feeling shaken and overwhelmed.33\n\nGermaine tried to brush off the hurt she had caused her friend. When she wrote to Lillian from London to ask her for the favour of mentioning Tony Gourvish and Family to her friends in New York, she offered an apology of sorts: 'Sorry about Earth Rose's indiscretion \u2013 I really didn't expect that we'd get any significant distribution in NY . . .' She even suggested that, should Lillian get any calls in response to the Suck piece, she should record the dialogue and send it to Suck for publication. 'People are very weird,' she wrote.34\n\nLillian's response was generous: 'I finally saw the Suck column. Very mean, but funny of course. I came off pretty lightly considering who had the crabs, whippings, etc.'35\n\nYet the bickering continued. Furious when she heard that her friend had been talking and writing about her relationship with Gourvish 'in the bitchiest way', Greer complained to Louise Ferrier: 'If she's still around you might tell her that I nearly caught a plane to NYC just to punch her in the teeth. I just wish she'd ignore me. PR from Lillian equals poison relations.'36\n\nLouise tried to remain neutral. 'She bitches as much about you as you do about her,' she told Germaine. 'Anyway, as I may have said to you before, I think your whole thing with her is quite ridiculous and unproductive. However, I do think Lillian had every right to be genuinely hurt by your column in Suck and I think that is underneath it all the bit that did it.'37\n\nIn the same letter, Ferrier also warned Germaine that there was an 'element in the London Underground that really hates success'. Some people, she said, would dislike Germaine for that reason alone.\n\nLillian Roxon made her last appearance at Max's early in August 1973, wearing one of her glitziest gowns and a feather stole. She was clearly very ill, overweight and bloated from the drugs she had been prescribed for her asthma. On 10 August, alone in her flat on a suffocatingly hot New York night, she suffered a fatal asthma attack and was found dead there a couple of days later. She was 41.\n\nIn a letter to her friend Nika Hazelton, written shortly after Lillian's death, Germaine confided that she felt 'as if a great nail had been driven through [her] sternum'. She could hope only that she would 'get used to it, like I did to all the other nails'. She was full of regret that she and Lillian had never managed to resolve their differences, but, strangely, she was still painting herself as Lillian's victim. 'I hope it means that in future, instead of creeping off to lick my wounds, I follow through my grievances while there is still time.'38\n\nAnother letter addressed to 'Dearest Lonni' on 30 September (no year) stated:\n\nI did not hate her, although I am utterly convinced she hated me and did me all the harm that lay in her power. The press-cuttings that ill-wishers always used to send hit me in the face like spittle, and I'd fret my gizzards to rags trying to work out whether she was telling the truth or not. She was obviously proud of the dedication to The Female Eunuch because she made damn sure that everybody knew about it and even based her whole lying story of being an intimate of mine (which she never was) upon that evidence, but all she ever said to me about it was that I had forced her to have the flat fumigated, as if John D. Rockefeller himself hasn't got cockroaches. I think I always imagined that one day it would come right, especially if I became un-famous again and Lillian could matronise me more successfully. She could not have hurt me as much as she did if I hadn't loved her.39\n\nDerryn Hinch, the Fairfax media group's New York manager in the early 1970s, was Lillian's 28-year-old Australian friend and boss at the time of her death. He was one of the last people to see her alive, when he called at her apartment on the night before she died to pick up tickets for a Helen Reddy concert. The heat that night was unbearable but she did not let him in because, she said, her flat was too stuffy and messy. She had no air conditioning. They stood at the door, talking, for fifteen minutes. It was he who later identified her body in the Manhattan morgue.\n\nAt the Melbourne International Film Festival in 2010, at a question-and-answer session after the premiere of the documentary Mother of Rock: The life and times of Lillian Roxon, based on the book of the same name by Robert Milliken, Germaine Greer clashed furiously with Hinch. Of all the 'fuckwits' in Fairfax's New York bureau in the early 1970s, she railed, Hinch was the 'biggest fuckwit of them all'. He was responsible for the punishing deadlines that had tormented Lillian, and he had paid her so poorly that she was forced to eat the 'crap' that added to her weight problem.\n\nIt had not taken her forty years to reach this conclusion. At the time, she deeply regretted that she could not be present at Lillian's funeral, and, even more, she hated to think that Hinch and his Fairfax colleagues had made all the big decisions about the disposal of Lillian's body and her effects. She was glad to hear that Lillian's good friends Danny Fields and Bob Hughes had been there at the funeral, she told Nika Hazelton, for she hated to think 'of the whole jamboree concocted of the greasy, crumpled sneaking spies that she used to smuggle into my room at the Chelsea'. The letter continued:\n\nReading between the lines of Derryn Hinch's account, I have that horrid, usual feeling that in death, Lillian fell into the wrong hands. The idea of three hundred journalists meeting among flowers to pay tribute is to me at least quite horrifying. The SMH worked her quite literally to death never letting her do any serious reporting, never offering her any promotion. Admittedly she was a hack, a gutter gossiper without any respect for facts, but that is what the Australian Press made . . . For Hinch to be smug and appreciative of her over her poor dead bloated body really churns my entrails.40\n\nBut Hinch had some facts on his side. On the night he called at Lillian's apartment to pick up the Reddy tickets, he had been appalled at the conditions she was living in. 'She looked hot and flushed because it was a mid-summer night. I said \"Lillian, you've got to get yourself bloody air conditioning or get yourself a better apartment\" and she was like \"You don't pay me enough.\"' But when he was helping to sort out her effects after her death, he discovered that she had more than US$60,000 in her bank accounts \u2013 more than enough to afford a better apartment, air conditioning and decent food. Also, Hinch was not acting alone in managing Lillian's final affairs. Most of this task fell to her family, including her brother Jack, who flew to New York from Melbourne as soon as her death was discovered. It was mainly Jack who decided to use Lillian's estate to set up a memorial trust in her name, to help Australian asthma researchers study overseas.\n\nDerryn Hinch was not the only villain in Germaine Greer's perceptions of the events surrounding Lillian Roxon's death. She also lashed out at the US medical establishment for failing to provide effective treatment. Not untypically, these attacks appear to have been driven as much by her personal spleen, unresolved issues in her relationship with her friend and the need to apportion blame as they were by feelings of loss and loyalty. Hinch certainly thought so: 'she's such a bitter old person,' he said in 2010. 'In her dotage, Greer has become the female Malcolm Muggeridge.'41\n\nBefore her death, Lillian provided a much more generous assessment of Germaine than Hinch's. To David Harcourt, on 14 May 1972, she wrote, 'She is by the way . . . not a \"rival\" since no one can hold a candle to her particular brand of pizzazz but she is someone I have quarrelled with often enough to truly love. She's braver, crueller and bawdier than I'll ever be, also more generous and patient.'42\n\nBy the time Germaine Greer left the United States at the end of her tour, The Female Eunuch had reached the top of the American bestseller lists. Sales were booming in Australia, too, but her countrymen and women did not quite know what to make of her. To many, she was one of the harbingers of an exciting, uncertain future at a crucial period when, as political journalist Graham Freudenberg noted, the country was experiencing 'a brilliant balance between hope for better things and satisfaction with the present; between expectation and experience; between a desire for change and enjoyment of the present'.43\n\nLike their American counterparts, the Australian media had begun to exploit 'women's lib' in newspaper articles and on television and radio talk shows. Australian women marched, held meetings, attended conferences and published their ideas. Housewives became involved in local consciousness-raising groups, and many were thinking about going back to school or university and moving into paid jobs. In traditional female occupations like teaching and nursing, groups of women got together to assert their rights. Noticing, finally, that men were being promoted faster and dumping the women with all the mundane jobs, they took action. The subtle innuendos and insults that in today's terms would be called sexual harassment in the workplace would continue for many years yet, but in the meantime, exploits like charging into the men's washroom to remove pin-ups of naked women were not only fun, they were symbolic of major cultural change.\n\nWhen she returned to Australia in December 1971 to promote the paperback edition of The Female Eunuch, Germaine Greer had become a colourful celebrity who was of huge interest to the international media. After having virtually divorced herself from her parents, she was now a very different person from the rebellious teenager who had escaped from her mother's house in Mentone all those years ago. Coming back to Melbourne \u2013 Melbourne the provincial, Melbourne the supremely suburban, Melbourne the unavoidably dull \u2013 must have been difficult for her: she was still deeply conflicted and not yet ready to confront the demons of memory that seemed to wait for her around every corner of her home city.\n\nShe was awkwardly and briefly reunited with some members of her family, including her sister Jane and brother Barry, but she did not get to see her mother because Peggy had fled overseas, ostensibly to avoid all the media hype but mainly to avoid the daughter of whom she claimed to be afraid, as her daughter claimed to be afraid of her. Nor did she see her father.\n\nThere were compensations: at her friend Winsome McCaughey's house, in the inner-city suburb of Parkville, Germaine and her old friend Ann Polis met up with a group of like-minded female friends. She was comfortable with them, but there were others who had discovered her celebrity status and sought to capitalise on it. She had to fend off not only a curious media but invitations from socially ambitious hostesses who would once have scorned her but were now threatening to lionise her.\n\nOn 12 January 1972 she was photographed at Melbourne airport on her way to board a plane to Sydney, where the promotional hype was about to start. Fashionably but casually dressed in a light midi-skirt and candy-striped top, handbag slung across one shoulder, the soon-to-turn-33 celebrity feminist and author refused to talk to the hungry press. 'I am still on holidays. I have nothing to say until I am working,' she announced regally.44\n\nAs in America, Australian journalists and their readers were more interested in Germaine Greer's personality and private life than they were in her ideas and opinions. 'She's brilliant, she's witty, she's outrageous. She talks like a cross between an English don and a sailor,' reported an Australian Women's Weekly journalist who interviewed Germaine in her luxury hotel room overlooking a sparkling Sydney Harbour in February 1972.\n\nThe 'green-eyed, chestnut-haired' Greer seems to have treated the Weekly's female reporter to a classic performance, as she gave a highly personal account of her unhappy relationship with her mother, her parents' unfortunate marriage, her first kiss from the rough labourer who squeezed her 'poor little budding breast', her embarrassment at being tall, and so on. Only when she was asked about her marriage did she threaten to 'clam up'. '[A]nything I say about my husband sounds libellous.'\n\nThe article was light on factual detail, but it did describe how Greer had recently won the hearts of male journalists at a 'packed' press conference in Sydney when she had told them, with a grin, that women's lib could be very sexy.45\n\nIn March 1972, no longer feeling quite so up close and personal, Germaine Greer complained on television that the Australian media were treating her like a superstar. 'They're much more interested in, you know, my going to bed with someone or my having VD or my getting a divorce than they are in the actual issues which I've come here to promote,' she protested.\n\nThis was all too true, but hardly surprising in a land that was still half asleep in the sunshine. In the same television program, a reporter asked some randomly selected women in the street about their views of women's liberation.\n\nReporter: Do you think you need liberating?\n\nWoman 1 (vaguely): Oh, from certain things. Not like they're preaching though.\n\nReporter: What sort of things?\n\nWoman 1 (chuckles, looks away): I don't know what to say. I don't know much about this.\n\nWoman 2: No, I don't either.\n\nWoman 3: I don't \u2013 I think women should be feminine.\n\nWoman 4 (agreeing and nodding her head): No.\n\nWoman 5: What's it about?\n\nWoman 6: No.\n\nWoman 7 (laughing): I'd rather be under the thumb.\n\nWoman 8: No, I'm perfectly satisfied as we are.\n\nWoman 9: No, I think it's a man's place to be head and that's all there is about it.\n\nWoman 10: I think it's a lot of nonsense really.\n\nWoman 11: I'm old-fashioned and he's old-fashioned but we just believe in the same things, like I believe a woman's place is in the home.46\n\nLater, the program showed a group of senior girls from Sydney Church of England Girls Grammar School (SCEGGS), who expressed more informed opinions than the women on the street. They had all studied The Female Eunuch, a copy of which was in the school library. To the reporter's question, 'Does Germaine Greer's book The Female Eunuch offer you a way of life that would appeal to you?' they replied in the affirmative, although comments like the following suggested a growing divide based on gender and generation.\n\nMy father has voiced many opinions that he didn't think it was a good thing and that it made many women dissatisfied with the life they had without, sort of . . . and when they couldn't really improve it or that they themselves would be frustrated in their efforts. And so they were just going to be making them unhappy, a lot of women who were previously happy.47\n\nThe Australian reviews of The Female Eunuch were more sensationalist than serious. Thelma Forshaw's review in Melbourne's The Age was not only trivial but offensive. A freelance reviewer, who was a generation older than Greer, Forshaw called her piece 'Feminist yen for a grizzle and a bit of rough'. 'King Kong is back,' she began, before going on to argue that Greer was attempting to return women to their primitive state of caveman days, when they needed to be 'restrained' by superior males. The castration Greer had drawn everyone's attention to, she claimed, amounted to no more than this ancient civilising influence of male over female.48\n\nFive days after the publication of Forshaw's article, The Age devoted its entire Correspondence section to readers' responses. Most were critical of Forshaw's views and annoyed that a quality newspaper like The Age would publish such a 'scurrilous personal attack'.\n\nBut Elsie Fry of Macleod agreed with Forshaw.\n\nAfter reading the review I am convinced that the book is the product of a perverted mind and I feel it is such a pity for The Age to lower its high standards by publishing such unhealthy ideas.49\n\nSydney continued to be the hub of Germaine Greer's publicity whirlwind of television appearances, press conferences and countless interviews. When she gave a lecture to a packed audience at her old stamping ground, the Wallace Theatre at the University of Sydney, her performance was more polished but no less riveting than that of the young Miss Greer, promising academic, who, not so very long ago, had lectured regularly in that renowned space.\n\nThe harbour city was also the scene of Germaine's political activities in Australia. Sensing her country's changing mood, as the Labor Party marshalled its resources to bring twenty-three years of conservative government to an end, she volunteered her support, marched in anti-war and women's liberation demonstrations, and gave evidence at the obscenity trials of two journalist mates, Wendy Bacon and John Cox. Yet, perhaps unfairly, her old friend Beatrice Faust described the Greer of this time as a 'political bonehead'. 'I should not have thought,' she wrote in Australian Humanist in March 1972, 'that she had a political bone in her body. I suspect that she may have, and that this is between her ears.'50\n\nAs if all this was not enough, her social life was frenetic. She was living in the then-raffish neighbourhood of Paddington with Phillip Frazer, the young founder and editor of Australia's first rock music paper and several counterculture magazines. They shared the house out of mutual convenience rather than mutual attraction, for she was involved in a wild affair with Mike Willesee, a charismatic Australian journalist and television personality whose high-profile marriage to a former Miss Australia was in the process of breaking up, and Phillip had multiple entanglements of his own to juggle. He recalls that time with great fondness.\n\nWe would talk a lot. She was reflective, intelligent, well-read, and original: she always thought outside the box. She also made no apologies for being her. And even though she was of that generation born just before 1946, who came of age before the 1960s' twin technological life-changers \u2013 the Pill and electronic music \u2013 she celebrated them for their transformative power. Still, I occasionally sensed her 1950s convent-girl self at work, affecting what made her twitch and holding on to a fundamental belief in the definability of right and wrong.51\n\nAt every opportunity, Germaine partied strenuously with loyal old Push friends like Margaret Fink, and newer acquaintances like Frazer, who were at the apex of the Sydney Left and rock-music scenes. ('Raced off Robert Plant the other night,' she confided casually in a letter to a friend in London.52)\n\nHer love for Willesee, however, was serious, reciprocated, and complicated in part by his wife's undisguised fury and determination to confront her. She realised that the affair would have to end but she thought she was probably in too deep for that to happen \u2013 yet.\n\nI think I'm travelling around the bend, having fallen in love with a marvellous madman who has Australia conned into thinking that he's a solid current affairs commentator, of which more when I see you. All I shall say at this stage is that I'm fighting it. Not sure that I'm winning though.53\n\nThis affair continued for some years as Germaine's visits to Australia became more frequent. She was even named as the co-respondent in Willesee's divorce case, but over time the relationship cooled as the busy demands of their work and travel kept them apart, and they both enjoyed multiple sex partners. As with many of Germaine's former lovers, Mike Willesee remained a good friend long after they had both moved on to new challenges and new lovers.\n\nGermaine had been commissioned to write a column for The Australian newspaper while she was in Australia, but for various reasons she was sacked after she had written only one piece. Her old friend Richard Walsh, from the Push and Australian Oz days, who had become the founding editor of Nation Review, was delighted when she agreed to write a weekly column for his paper instead.\n\nShe would arrive at around 5.30, bash away at the typewriter and be finished by 7. She was very fluent. She wouldn't stay around afterwards and have a drink with the boys. Everyone else was kind of nervous. She would treat the junior staff in a fairly imperious way. By that time, she was a celebrity and she acted like one.54\n\nEarly in March 1972, Germaine Greer left Australia briefly to stir up a storm in the gentle country of New Zealand. Her publicity team had arranged an exacting schedule that included a television photo shoot on the beach at Islington Bay with prominent New Zealand feminist activist Sue Kedgley.55 According to a report in the Canberra Times, Germaine was dressed for the stunt in knickers she claimed to have bought at Coles in Sydney for 30 cents, and a similarly cheap boys' singlet. No bra, of course. Sue was wearing pink knickers, in which the elastic appeared to have failed, and a black nylon see-through bra.\n\nThis episode was only the start of the excitement. Everywhere Germaine went, the citizens of this peaceful land, where not a lot was going on, flocked to hear her speak. 'For the first time in New Zealand,' said one commentator, 'a radical women's liberationist was given the sort of media coverage normally accorded to royalty. Suddenly the dangerously subversive ideas of Women's Liberation were being discussed on prime-time television and on the front pages of daily newspapers.'56\n\nThe incident that led to the greatest publicity coup of all happened at a packed meeting at the Auckland Town Hall. It was a twist of fate that Germaine dressed for the occasion in her Oz obscenity trial T-shirt and (as usual) no bra. Contrived though the episode may have been, however, even she probably did not realise that she was about to face her very own obscenity trial.\n\nThe background to the incident was that left-wing politician Mr Tim Shadbolt, who would later become the Mayor of Invercargill, had recently been arrested for saying 'bullshit' over a loudspeaker. It was reported that, as she was speaking at the meeting, someone passed Greer a note informing her that Shadbolt was in jail. Delighted at this opportunity to use one of her favourite attention-getting tactics, she inserted a couple of 'bullshits' of her own into her speech and added some 'fucks' for good measure. 'Now they'll have to arrest me too,' she said happily. Which they did.\n\nThe Auckland Magistrate's Court was so crowded for Germaine Greer's 'trial' that Sue Kedgley had to climb through a fire escape at the back of the building to get into it. Outside the court, six hundred people chanted, swore, and threw rotten eggs and jelly beans at police. Twenty-nine people were arrested. Auckland had never seen anything like it!\n\nInside the courthouse, Greer sacked her lawyer and conducted her own defence in front of Mr D.G. Sinclair, Stipendiary Magistrate. The proceedings soon became Gilbertian as the first witness, a married woman with grown-up children, rose to give her evidence. She had heard Greer use the word 'bullshit', she said, and had complained to the police.\n\nWoman: She used it at least three times. I don't know what it means for sure.\n\nGreer: Are you saying that you don't know what the two separate words mean \u2013 bull and shit?\n\nWoman: No.\n\nGreer: Didn't you know it was excrement?\n\nWoman: I didn't know if it was excrement or semen.\n\nGreer: Do you think 'rubbish' is an adequate word to use instead?\n\nWoman: No \u2013 not so emphatic.57\n\nGreer was acquitted on 'bullshit' but convicted for 'fuck'. The magistrate imposed a jail sentence, but since she did not have time to go to jail in New Zealand, she offered to pay the NZ$40 fine instead. (Which, incidentally, she did not do, even when plaintive demands followed her back to the United Kingdom.)\n\nShe left Sydney on 22 March 1972 to fly back to England via India and Bangladesh, where, she told reporters, she intended to investigate the rape of Bengali women during the war with Pakistan. She joked that she was leaving Australia for her health: 'One more day of Australian newspapers and I'll have a plastic bag instead of a colon.' Shamelessly, considering how she had used the press to generate publicity, she criticised the media for 'interposing' themselves between herself and the public.58\n\nOn a personal level, Germaine's return to Australia after such a long absence was difficult. She was not yet ready to confront the demons of her youth and childhood. That would come later. For now, she would seek peace and acceptance in other lands.\n\nI think I've outlived my usefulness here anyway . . . So I'll go back to England where they accept me as just another person . . . I'll go back there for a while and see how the indigenous movement here develops, see if Australians begin to listen to their own women as a result of my having been here. If they don't lend ear to what's being said, then [her voice becoming anguished], Australia, goddamn!59\n6\n\nWind of Tizoula\n\nO Wind of Tizoula! O wind of Amsoud!\n\nBlow over the plains and over the sea,\n\nCarry, oh, carry my thoughts\n\nTo him who is so far, so far,\n\nAnd who has left me without a little child.\n\nO wind! Remind him I have no child.\n\nAnonymous1\n\nGermaine Greer's transition to international celebrity was not achieved without pain. She lost some old friends along the way, but made new ones among some of the richest and most powerful people in the world. In her archive are to be found many gold-lettered invitations to star-studded events, dinners and parties, from members of the British aristocracy, famous writers, actors, artists and musicians, diplomats, prominent politicians and captains of industry. In the United States, as a long-time civil rights activist and supporter of the Left, she gravitated towards the Democratic side of politics, which, at that time, meant the Kennedys. Her publicists, anxious to maximise the connection, organised for her to meet Kennedy family members, including Sargent Shriver, husband of Eunice Kennedy. She and Shriver became good friends; he entertained her at expensive New York society restaurants and on at least one occasion was her 'date' at Max's Kansas City. When Harper's Magazine commissioned her to cover the Democratic National Convention that gave George McGovern the presidential nomination in 1972, Germaine publicly and privately supported the Kennedys, helping Shriver to gain the vice-presidential nomination.\n\nLike many Australians, Germaine Greer was no monarchist. In 1954, she and her sister Jane had been taken to see the young Queen Elizabeth and her handsome husband Phillip on their first official visit to Australia. The two girls were lifted onto a trestle in the midst of a flag-waving crowd. Germaine had her little flag too, but as the Daimler drove past their spot, something about the way the gracious Queen was smiling and waving \u2013 maybe it was the monarchical condescension \u2013 got under her skin: she became an instant republican, a position she has held ever since. As soon as she got home she tore up her collection of Royal pictures. 'That was the end of my love affair with Lilibet,' she was later to write.2\n\nNearly twenty years later, in England, she made the acquaintance of Lord Snowdon, husband of Princess Margaret, when he photographed her for Vogue magazine. That was her first but by no means her last encounter with British royalty. In an article published in The Telegraph in 2002, she recalled a meeting with Princess Margaret at Porto Cervo in Sardinia, more than thirty years earlier.\n\nPorto Cervo, on the stunningly beautiful Costa Smeralda, is a luxury resort made famous by the Aga Khan IV in the 1960s as a village retreat for the cream of international society and a berthing place for their super-luxury yachts. In the summer of 1971, Germaine travelled there on her green moped and by ferry in response to a telegraphed invitation from theatre critic and close friend Kenneth Tynan. In her saddlebag she was carrying a draft of an adaptation of Aristophanes' Lysistrata that she had prepared at his request. Tynan, who was hoping to produce the show in London starring Laurence Olivier the following January, was impatient to see her and her script, and she herself was hot with excitement about the venture.\n\nIn the end, the project came to nothing; that version of Lysistrata was never performed and Germaine's visit to Porto Cervo ended, literally, in tears, after she fought with Tynan and took off precipitately early one morning on her moped, without farewells. The only thing that made the visit memorable, apart from her bizarre mode of transport, was her dinner with royalty.\n\nGreer and Tynan were the guests of Michael White, British theatre impresario and film producer, whose credits included Monty Python and the Holy Grail and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. White's connections were impressive and no one was surprised when an invitation arrived from Princess Margaret and her husband for White and his house party to join them for drinks at their holiday flat nearby. Stuffed in her saddlebag, apart from the Lysistrata script, Germaine had carried only a toothbrush, a red bikini, and a cotton jersey dress which, she thought, though crushed, showed off her brown bosom and shoulders rather well. Clad in this dress and otherwise unadorned, hair awry, she prepared to make the acquaintance of HRH. She knew she should curtsey, so she practised before she left, but when they arrived at the flat, which she thought modest ('neither a chandelier nor a footman in sight'), Margaret saw her first and startled her by barking 'Good evening,' so she did not have time to twist her knees into the required position. She knew that one should not sit while a member of the royal family is standing, and had read in some women's magazine that the princess was a stickler for protocol, so she was careful to remain standing in her presence. This created another problem. She was so tall. The princess was so tiny. She felt herself to be looming. 'For God's sake sit down,' commanded Margaret. Drinks were served.\n\nThen Margaret announced that they were all invited to 'K's' for dinner. K was Karim Aga Khan, descendant of the prophet Mohammed and one of the ten richest royals in the world. Born in 1936, the same year as Ken Tynan and three years before Germaine, he was then 35 years old.\n\nTo reach the Snowdons' holiday flat the party had travelled by motorboat. By the time they arrived at their destination, Germaine's hair, unruly enough to begin with, had been whipped totally out of control by the wind. She carried no handbag, brush or comb. 'Go into my room,' said Margaret. 'You'll find everything you need on the dressing-table.' And sure enough, on the glass-topped table she discovered exotic perfumes of every kind, powder boxes and silver-backed ivory brushes and combs. Overwhelmed, she sat staring, frozen, in front of the mirror. Then Princess Margaret came up behind her, took the largest brush, and started to brush her guest's lustrous hair in long strokes.\n\nShe worked unhurriedly, as a little girl might brush her mother's hair, attentively, silently, careful not to tug at the tangles or catch my ears with bristles, keeping the static controlled with her free hand, oblivious that I was watching her in the mirror. After a good five minutes, she laid down the brush, said, 'You'll do,' and went out to join the others.3\n\nOver dinner at the Aga Khan's house, Germaine sat next to Tony, Lord Snowdon, who entertained her with unkind comments about the royal family. When the pudding arrived, a confection of white spun sugar, she joked that it looked like one of the Queen Mother's hats. Tony laughed so uproariously that Margaret, seated at the other table, asked what the joke was. Germaine felt sorry for the princess, noticing how Snowdon would evade her touch and avoid her glances.\n\nIn the years that followed, Germaine had many opportunities to exchange pleasantries with Princess Margaret (and manage to curtsey). 'Each time,' she commented, 'I was left with a vivid impression of a real person condemned to live her life as a pantomime.'4\n\nGermaine had travelled to Porto Cervo from Tuscany, where she was renting 'Il Palazzone', a woodcutter's cottage near the town of Cortona. She had chosen Tuscany as a refuge, first from the glare of publicity that now, after her book's success and her triumphant American tour, pursued her everywhere, and second from the British taxation system, which threatened to come down hard on her newly acquired wealth from the success of The Female Eunuch. In the summer of 1971, writing from Il Palazzone, she told lawyers for her old friend Richard Neville that she could not return to England to give evidence in his support at the Oz obscenity trials because of the taxation laws that were forcing her to spend significant periods of time out of the country.\n\nFrom Il Palazzone she corresponded with David Greville, Lord Brooke, soon to become the eighth Earl of Warwick, who was also a friend of the Snowdons. While lecturing at the University of Warwick, she had become a regular visitor to his home, Warwick Castle. There she had formed a lasting friendship with this urbane peer whose father, the seventh earl, was one of the richest men in England. (It was Brooke with whom she had arranged to take tea at his London house in elegant Blenheim Crescent on the afternoon of her first meeting with Paul du Feu. Du Feu was impressed when she told him she would need to keep that appointment before rejoining him later back at the pub on the Portobello Road.)\n\nIn one letter from Il Palazzone, she told Brooke that she was feeling 'paralyzed by homesickness' for England. The Oz trials were going badly for her friends back in London, and they were facing jail terms. 'The Oz scandal has upset me,' she wrote, 'so that I cannot imagine what I am doing in impotent isolation in a country where the newspapers clatter egregiously about people going to hospital for overdoses of marijuana.' She was surrounded, she continued, by a host of minor Italian nobility, 'every vulgar little speculator selling off his patrimony before [new laws on land ownership] are passed'. Unlike David, who had a strong sense of service to his country, she wrote, these 'nobilacci' were selfish, greedy parasites.\n\nBrooke, tongue firmly in cheek, replied, 'Naturally, I support the Italian nobility.'\n\nOn 29 August 1971, she wrote to tell David Brooke about her visit to Porto Cervo and her dinner with royalty at the Aga Khan's house. She had thought that Snowdon was 'pretty much at the end of his tether . . . he behaved distinctly worse than I did, although I wasn't trying, and I think he was'. It seemed to her that Snowdon was deliberately provoking 'HRH' so that she would send him off for good, but 'the Princess seems just as resolute that this shall not happen'.5\n\nThe Germaine Greer of 1971 was, as her friend Richard Walsh would later describe her, a 'lusty' woman who never went too long without a man in her bed. Il Palazzone was the scene of several love affairs, including one with a New York taxidriver called David (presumably the same David who had been called her 'bodyguard' in America). She confided to her friend, the academic and poet Clive Bush, that she had been 'enduring' an off-and-on relationship with this young man. He was physically beautiful but otherwise 'thoroughly unpleasant'.6\n\nIl Palazzone was also the venue for what was possibly her most famous interview for a publication \u2013 Hugh Hefner's Playboy, the magazine that aimed to turn soft porn into an art form. Inside Playboy's glossy covers were pages and pages of extraordinarily lovely women displaying their naked breasts and buttocks in strategically lit poses. This was hardly the stuff of feminism, but Playboy also provided serious intellectual content, mainly in the form of interviews with writers, poets, politicians, engineers, academics and economists. Its editors believed that an article on Germaine Greer would show the magazine at its best, by paying attention to the important intellectual issue of women's liberation while engaging with its current embodiment who, fortuitously, happened to be a very sexy and beautiful woman.\n\nOn 8 July 1971, Playboy editor Nat Lehrman contacted Greer's agent, Diana Crawfurd, in London, about the possibility of him doing an article on her. 'I'd like to state our motivation as clearly as I can,' he wrote, 'we think Dr Greer is a brilliantly articulate spokeswoman for an important point of view, as well as a delightfully witty and intelligent person in all regards. The fact that she is consummately sexy as well has not influenced our desire for the interview \u2013 I think . . .'\n\nHe understood, he continued, that Greer was living in a small town near Florence and would probably stay there till October. He would be prepared to travel there and to stay for at least a week, so that he could do the interview 'in small doses, over a week or two'.7\n\nWith Germaine's agreement, Lehrman flew from the United States to Rome, then drove 140 miles to the hills above Cortona to discover her in her cottage. He had expected her to commend him for his effort, but she was unimpressed. 'I'd planned to sneak out tonight to see a play in Montepulciano,' she greeted him, 'but you would show up on time. Just like a bloody American.'\n\nNor did she hold back in her comments about his magazine.\n\nIt's not just the centrefold I disapprove of, it's all the other images of women in Playboy . . . all those bleary faces and those haggard men and those pumped-up women in their see-through dresses, with everybody's nipples poking out and those fixed, glittering, maniacal smiles on the girls' faces . . . Or the jokes . . . not to mention the cartoon. They all give the illusion that fifty-year-old men are entitled to fuck fifteen-year-old girls \u2013 especially if they are given diamond bracelets \u2013 while fifty-year-old women are too repulsive to be seen with \u2013 you display your girls as if they were a commodity. Sex ought not to be that.8\n\nAustralian writer and journalist Keith Dunstan, who remarked that the Germaine Greer of this time was the best-known Australian in the world \u2013 comparable only with Dame Nellie Melba \u2013 described this Playboy interview as 'the ultimate accolade'.9\n\nSome months after her interview with Lehrman, Germaine, still in love with Tuscany, bought a pretty cottage, 'Pianelli', in the Montanare di Cortona. It was here that she found her greatest peace and happiness. 'I loved that house so much,' she said years later, 'that I have been able to survive the loss of it only by sternly forbidding myself to think about it, let alone write about it.'10\n\nIt was through her old friend from Warwick, Gay Clifford, that she discovered Pianelli. The two young women had remained firm friends and enjoyed many riotous times together in England and Italy, but their friendship was complicated by a mutually ungovernable urge to compete against each other for personal and professional success, and for men.\n\nGermaine was living at Il Palazzone when she first visited Pianelli as a guest of Gay, who was spending the summer of 1971 there with her lover, Michael. 'She pays through the nose for an exquisite hideaway at a wild desolate and utterly lovely place known as \"Pianelli\",' Germaine wrote to Clive Bush, 'where she whiles away the days with a student lover . . . bathing naked in the sun.'11\n\nAt Gay's invitation, Germaine laboured up the hill on her moped to that 'exquisite' little house and immediately fell in love with it. She had to have it!\n\nGay would have loved to buy Pianelli for herself, but it was Germaine, now flush with money and success, who was able to raise the money without blinking. Gay was vexed when she realised that the friend with whom she had been happy to share her beloved Pianelli had become its owner \u2013 the piper who stood ready to call all of the tunes in her house.\n\nWith Germaine, it is sometimes difficult to tell when her natural generosity of spirit is overtaken by a compulsion to control the lives of others in her orbit. She has shared all of her homes with other people, never expecting payment, and she has been especially kind to people in need. There is evidence in her own correspondence and in newspaper articles written by and about her that suggests her relationships often soured and misunderstandings multiplied when she tried to make decisions about her prot\u00e9g\u00e9s' needs and wants, showing a careless disregard of their own desires and feelings. As a supremely capable and intelligent person herself, she simply could not understand how some of them could be (in her view) so stupid.\n\nStupidity was never an issue in Germaine's relationship with Gay Clifford, for both women recognised each other's brilliance, but Germaine's purchase of Pianelli is one example of her failure to be aware of the effect her actions might have on others. This marked the beginning of a long period in which arguments over money \u2013 Germaine wanting to help her friend and Gay resenting her for it \u2013 could not be resolved. Generously, Germaine had assumed that Gay and Michael would continue to stay at Pianelli as often as they wanted, without paying rent, but she failed to consider that Gay, who had lived in and loved the house before her, might not wish Germaine to become her benefactor.\n\nGermaine had looked forward to spending her first night as owner of Pianelli with Gay and Michael but, in the event, they chose to move out and sleep elsewhere. Deeply hurt, surprised and disappointed at being left by herself in her new house, she later suspected that they had taken this action as some kind of (undeserved) revenge or punishment 'so that I could gloat over my new acquisition alone'. Agonising over the reasons for Gay's behaviour, she lamented the subsequent rift in the friendship, which went on for several months. Why could her friend not simply accept her generosity? What difference did it make that she, rather than some absentee landlord, was now the owner of Pianelli? Had Gay, unwarrantedly, believed herself to be the 'true' owner because she had lived there first?\n\n'Gay clearly felt that the little house was no longer her territory and used it much less than I would have wanted,' Germaine wrote wistfully after her friend's death. But she also confessed that she herself had run the house as an 'autocracy'.12\n\nHer rift with Gay Clifford was not the only problem that unsettled Germaine in those early days at Pianelli. She had commissioned several labourers to carry out substantial building works, and between their demands and meeting the needs of guests with whom she wanted to share her good fortune, her nerves were strung almost to breaking point. So much so that, as she wrote to her friend and secretary, Franki Roberts, who was looking after her affairs in London:\n\nI seduced the bull-dozer driver, actually it was done with so much dispatch that he may have thought he raped me, my metabolism being strung to such a pitch that kept me half-swooning with accumulated (and utterly impersonal) desire. Oops. He has eyes as yellow as French headlights and the original up-curving cock that you find on the satyrs in Catherine the Great's boudoir. He is actually an ignorant ego-maniac but I have always found silk purses much more interesting than sow's ears.13\n\nPianelli stood at the end of a very long road that wound uphill through a picturesque valley. It was small, simple and well-proportioned, on eight acres of land with views stretching across the mist to the Apennine Mountains. There were few modern comforts to start with \u2013 not even electricity \u2013 but Germaine made the house into a home for herself and for the many visitors she liked to entertain there. Some friends came with their families, and shades of her fantasy of shared parenthood in a remote village surfaced as she helped to care for and entertain the children.\n\nHer homemaking skills often surprised visitors. Her house, like her wardrobe, reflected her distinctive sense of style, colour and fabric as well as her proficiency with her needle and sewing machine. She had carefully selected her furniture for quality and charm, and had even arranged for some pieces to be made by local craftsmen from regional materials. She was also a first-class cook who liked to use herbs and other fresh produce from her garden in her recipes.\n\nThis classic, white-themed Italian garden of roses, lavender, fruit trees and a large range of temperate plants and shrubs was her great joy. One of her visitors, the Australian artist Jeffrey Smart, described 'a most splendid and scholarly rose garden, as well as a kitchen garden'. His use of the word 'scholarly' was well chosen, as Germaine's knowledge of plants and flowers was encyclopaedic, and she tended her garden with academic thoroughness as well as botanical flair.14\n\nTo complement her herb garden, she had a small laboratory where she made herbal tinctures and medicines, thus harking back to medieval times when 'wise' women were the chief practitioners of the healing arts, and every convent had its garden of therapeutic plants and herbs tended by nuns. At one stage she even produced medicinal plants on a commercial basis, supplying iris, lavender, camomile, mistletoe and rue for homeopathic industries.15\n\nShe was dividing her time between London and Pianelli when she first met legendary film director Federico Fellini in August 1975. He was about to start work on Casanova, for which he would later win an Academy Award, at the Cinecitt\u00e0 studios in Rome, where all his films were made. One of the casting directors suggested that Germaine should be given an audition for the role of the giantess. On a very hot day, the hottest of the year, according to the account she wrote for The Guardian in 2010, she set off along the Autostrada del Sole to have lunch with Fellini and the film crew. By the time she arrived she was looking very sexy (at least, that is what she implied in her article). She had been sweating so much that her hair was flattened against her head and her flimsy dress clung to her otherwise naked 36-year-old body. Ignoring the fact that she must have been uncomfortable and, probably, smelling, Fellini could not take his eyes off her. 'Fellini kept watching me as I chatted with the crew, moving his head slightly as if he was studying the planes of my face, narrowing his eyes.' No one mentioned the part of the giantess during lunch and she decided she did not want it anyway.\n\nFellini, then 55, was a notorious philanderer who, according to one biographer, liked to talk about 'the insatiable dragon' he kept in his pants. He gave Germaine a copy of the Casanova film script, 'then very much a work in progress', asked her for her opinion and suggested that she might consider taking the part of Madame Ch\u00e2telet in a scene where Casanova meets Rousseau. After the lunch she took the script home, studied it closely, and then wrote to Fellini suggesting that Madame Ch\u00e2telet should not be reduced to a huge-breasted nurse for the senile Rousseau. Fellini, obviously drawn as much by his memories of her sweaty body as her helpful comments, decided to visit her.\n\nIn her Guardian article, she told of how Fellini arrived at Pianelli one day in a large blue Mercedes and, with obvious intent, sent the driver away till the following morning. They talked at length about the film, but Germaine wondered if he was really listening to her as his eyes raked her body and he whistled between his teeth from time to time. Suppertime came and she wanted to cook for him, but, valetudinarian that he was, he insisted on making his own plain risotto with just one leaf of basil. He drank no wine.\n\nThere was never any question, said Germaine, of their not sleeping together in her bed. He changed carefully into the brown silk pyjamas with cream piping he had brought in a small overnight bag, and carefully hung up his clothes for the morrow. Not wanting to let truth get in the way of the story, she claimed that he then made a quick call to his wife, actress Giulietta Masina, at home in their apartment in the Via Margutta, and followed it up with more calls to Giulietta every couple of hours. This is a nice touch, but it could not have been true, as there was no telephone, or even electricity, connected at Pianelli at this time.\n\nGermaine chose not to provide details of her first sexual encounter with Fellini. But she gave her Guardian readers a fair idea of what went on in the big bed. He was horrified that she slept with all her windows open. When the oil lamps were extinguished, a small bat came in through the open window and circled the room. Fellini, according to Germaine, was terrified. A bat had flown into his hair when he was a child. Did she not know that? She replied that any bat would have a better idea of where his hair was than he did. He began to pant, and she kept two fingers on his pulse, which was beating around 'like a frog in a bucket'. When he apologised for frightening her she assured him she had not been frightened, but was simply wondering what she would tell the press if he 'carked it' in her bed.\n\nAs he had planned, Fellini left next day, promising to buy her a generator so that she would no longer have to depend on the bat-attracting oil lamps. He fulfilled his promise and sent his own electricians to install the equipment. 'Now, every time you turn the lights on, you'll think of me,' he said.\n\nFrom then on, says Greer, the relationship 'was self-limiting, because I wasn't always available'. She continued to spend time with him on the sets of his films at Cinecitt\u00e0. She teased him about the way he directed the storm scene in La citt\u00e0 delle donne, 'flying back and forth on a huge dolly, calling for \"Thunder! Lightning! Rain! More lightning!\" like God Himself'. The two exchanged letters for almost twenty years before Fellini died on 31 October 1993, one day after his fiftieth wedding anniversary.16\n\nPianelli was not the only house Germaine bought after the financial success of The Female Eunuch. In 1973 she decided to buy a house in London's gentrifying Notting Hill area. The one she chose was at 54 Cambridge Gardens, a relatively quiet street off Ladbroke Grove. It had five storeys, including the basement, and a porch with pillars and six doorbells. Once the grand home of nineteenth-century gentlefolk, it had decayed into a kind of rooming house \u2013 a warren of kitchenettes, bathrooms and bedsitters with shilling-in-the-meter heating \u2013 just the kind of cheap accommodation expatriate Australians used to seek out in the 1960s. Germaine was now not only the owner of this conglomeration, but a person with the means, taste and connections to turn it into a grand home for herself.\n\nHer first challenge was the squatters and graffitists who had taken over the house. In the British legal system, squatters can only be dealt with through civil procedures, and in the counterculture circles that Germaine still favoured there was considerable empathy with their plight. Most liberal-minded people saw no good reason to disapprove of the homeless who chose to occupy houses left vacant by wealthy people who could afford to own more than one property. Germaine was not surprised that squatters were living in her house when she bought it, but any moral dilemma she may have felt about putting an end to their occupancy did not prevent her from having them evicted. On Tuesday 3 September 1973, Franki Roberts wrote to her employer, who was strategically away from London at Pianelli.\n\nThe squatters were evicted from the house at 6 am this morning . . . there were only 3 squatters in residence and they surprised them, as the squatters were prepared for a fight \u2013 i.e. pots of paint etc., slogans strung outside the house and such, but from what I gathered from them there was no trouble. Mind you they had 50 police there. There was also an eviction at 48 Cambridge Gardens, a West Indian family squatting there in Notting Hill Housing Trust property and Mr Stocks said he advised the Sheriff to evict them at the same time to distract from activity at your house . . . I was bothered at [Greer's] flat from 10 on by the BBC, radio and press people asking about the squat and at 1 pm this afternoon about a dozen squatters and friends held a demonstration outside the flat in Gloucester Walk, with slogans etc.17\n\nGermaine was later to claim that one of her reasons for choosing the house was its 'magnificent' graffiti, one of which, said to have been written by the poet Christopher Logue, spelled out, in foot-high block capitals, 'Boredom is counter-revolutionary'. The truth was hardly less romantic: authorship of the piece was later attributed to a band of anarchists and revolutionaries called 'King Mob'. This group, whose fundamental ideas and principles must have been close to Germaine's, was known for its incendiary graffiti across London, the most celebrated instance being a slogan painted along a half-mile section of the London Tube between Ladbroke Grove and Westbourne Park stations, which read:\n\nSame thing day after day \u2013 tube \u2013 work \u2013 dinner \u2013 work \u2013 tube \u2013 armchair \u2013 TV \u2013 sleep \u2013 tube \u2013 work \u2013 how much more can you take? \u2013 one in ten go mad, one in five cracks up.\n\nIn 2007, in an article published on the revolutionary website Revolt Against Plenty, a former member of King Mob recalled that Germaine's house, being in a dimly lit side street off the regular police beat, was easy to spray-paint. For the record, he said, they had also sprayed 'This too will burn'. When they discovered that it was Germaine Greer who had bought the house and evicted the squatters living there, they returned to do 'a bit of further spray-painting after the midnight hour'. People around Notting Hill (by whom he could have meant his fellow squatters and revolutionaries and\/or the new left-leaning gentry who were moving in to the area) were feeling indignant about her actions. Before their onslaught on Germaine's house, the group had set fire to Paul McCartney's Mercedes, and the writer of the article (recalling in 2007 his youthful strength and how good it had felt to pick up a huge potted plant and slam it through the car's bonnet) regretted that the police, whom Greer had called to spoil their adventure, had succeeded, largely because he and his friends were 'out of our brains on grass and Portuguese bagacao'. But they did manage to set fire to one of Germaine's skips.18\n\nFrom the moment she first saw 54 Cambridge Gardens, Germaine thought she had realised her dream: high ceilings, shutters, cornices, a house of noble proportions and gentle warmth. The architectural firm she chose to help her with plans for the conversion was renowned for its modernist buildings and sensitive social housing projects: there was some tension between her vision and theirs, but eventually they managed to create a house of style and grace. At considerable expense, they made three gardens \u2013 back, front and roof \u2013 and transformed the attics into a double-height, open plan workroom-cum-library. The many small bedrooms were reduced to three, there was a conservatory on the first-floor landing, and the pitch-pine kitchen and reception area on the ground floor became the main living room in which Germaine, as the self-described 'hostess', could entertain friends while she cooked.\n\nIt was a big house for one woman and she was determined to share it, but the sharing was not without its difficulties. As ever, Germaine was torn between living up to her desired self-image as generous friend and patron, and putting up with the foibles of those she chose to shelter.\n\nThe result was a beautiful, calm and spacious house that I always shared with friends, from whom I never demanded any rent. Only the tenant of the basement flat was expected to pay rent, which didn't prevent people living as my guests in the main house from describing me as their landlady.19\n\nAmong her guests was the then-fledgling star Pamela Stephenson, who practised singing every morning. Loudly.\n\nIn a very short time, however, noisy singers, unappreciative guests and the plight (or nuisance) of the squatters came to bother Germaine less than the steady drain of money from her bank account occasioned by her grand house. All too soon, a combination of unwise investments, the economic slump of the 1970s and harassment by the Department of Inland Revenue forced her to sell her home at a substantial loss, to an accountant who made a good profit when he in turn sold it to a film producer a couple of years later.\n\n1975 was an unforgettable year in Australian politics \u2013 the year of the Dismissal, when the governor-general chose to sack an elected prime minister. Most Australians, even many of those who had opposed the Labor Party and its policies, were gobsmacked. Before the December election that closely followed the sacking on 11 November, many people who had never taken an active interest in politics turned up at local Labor Party branch meetings to support Gough Whitlam. Members of the Women's Electoral Lobby went into overdrive.20\n\nLike many of her countrymen and women, Germaine Greer was outraged at what she believed to be a basely motivated abuse of Australia's constitutional system of government. It was unthinkable, she told a Sunday Times reporter, that the Australian people should choose to replace the socialist Whitlam with the patrician Malcolm Fraser, who would destroy all of the Labor government's achievements of the past three years. Why would they want a man like Fraser for their prime minister anyway?, she demanded to know. His eyes were much too close together.21\n\nHaving lost no time in returning home to offer her support to the Labor Party, she chose to stay in Canberra at the home of her friend, Labor minister Susan Ryan, telling her that she expected to be a useful ally of the Left in the hard-fought electoral campaign to come. She had many friends at the highest levels of the Labor Party, including the former prime minister and his wife, but her country was still not ready for her, and the Australian press continued to deride and shame her. Shell-shocked, the Labor Party mandarins feared that she would be a liability rather than an asset to their cause, and her offers of assistance were politely refused.\n\nThe mid-1970s were not happy years for Germaine. To ease the financial pressures that were becoming a major worry, she was spending about three weeks every few months in the United States, lecturing on feminist issues. Lucrative as this was, it was also disruptive and exhausting. She longed for change, but she was not sure how to achieve it.\n\nChanging men was one way, and, as she told Sydney journalist Hilary Roots in an interview for the Australian Women's Weekly in January 1976, her custom was to combine this with cutting her hair. She complained about people's nosy interest in her appearance but then went on to provide more details about it. She used to pluck her eyebrows because she didn't like them, she said. She had tried bleaching them and combing them and plucking them into all sorts of shapes, but now she just cut them with scissors. And lest people be wondering about her hands, 'I put formaldehyde on my nails,' she said, 'to help them grow.'22\n\nShe had come to Australia to help out with the election, she explained, but there was another reason. She wanted to visit the gynaecologist who had looked after her in her Sydney Push days. 'Of course I wanted to see Labor win,' she said, 'but I also came back to see my old doctor.\n\n'I want to have a baby. He operated on me and diagnosed me correctly . . . before, so I thought I'd give him another go.'23\n\nThis 'old doctor' may have been the one Germaine later talked about with her friend Liz Fell, who was also a left-wing journalist. Known to some women in Push circles, this man specialised in treating various gynaecological disorders by removing an ovary and one fallopian tube. Germaine and Liz both had abdominal scars from being operated on by him. Neither woman ever went on to have a successful pregnancy.24\n\nIf she had a baby, Germaine told Hilary Roots, she would give up the US lecture circuit. 'I'd have to cool it a lot, even for my pregnancy, because no doctor would ever agree to my doing all that flying. If I ever get pregnant, it's going to be a bumpy ride for everybody, baby included.' She was 'coy' about whom she might choose as the father, but believed there was no shortage of suitable candidates (and three in Australia alone). As resolutely opposed to the idea of the nuclear family as ever, she believed that the people who shared her house in London would welcome a child. They were all getting a bit bored and jaded, she said, and it struck her that children were just what they needed to brighten them up. Or, she might establish a household somewhere else. She had not abandoned her earlier idyll of a cooperative parenting arrangement in a simple, probably Mediterranean, environment, with a peasant couple doing all the domestic work. And she definitely intended to breastfeed.25\n\nOver the years, Germaine Greer has publicly shared much of her personal gynaecological history in print and interviews. In May 2000, she wrote an article for the first issue of Aura magazine in which she described her longing for a baby in the 1970s. In this article, under the heading 'The truth is, says Germaine Greer, I was desperate for a baby and I have the medical bills to prove it', she traced the reasons for her inability to bear a child. As a student, she explained, she had had a contraceptive device called a Gr\u00e4fenberg ring inserted into her uterus.26 The device had been accidentally expelled, painfully cutting into her cervix in the process and causing infection. Her fallopian tubes were severely damaged and she underwent complicated surgery. The gynaecologist who performed the operation told her afterwards that she would never conceive a child.\n\nThis doctor was wrong, she said, and she did become pregnant, but the pregnancy went badly. Fearing that she would become 'the impoverished single mother of a handicapped child', she arranged to have an abortion which, in the event, coincided with a natural miscarriage and a violent haemorrhage that exploded all over the abortionist's Savile Row suit. Again, she was told that another pregnancy was virtually impossible; again, the medical advice was wrong.\n\nThe article continued: a couple of years later, she heard that one of her students at Warwick was pregnant and unable to pay her rent. Germaine invited her to come and live with her at her flat in Leamington Spa. She herself was only spending two or three nights a week there at that time, so she generously agreed to give the young mother her bed while she herself slept on the couch in the living room.\n\nBaby Ruby screamed every night from eight o'clock till midnight for the first three months, but Germaine did not mind at all. She nursed her and walked her and soothed her until she fell asleep. She was smitten. 'I found her scrumptious, delicious, ineffable, adorable . . . Ruby lit up my life in a way that nobody, certainly no lover has ever done.' Germaine became Ruby's godmother and surrogate mother, continuing to share her homes in Italy and London with the child's natural mother, Renee, whom she supported for some years.\n\nRuby was thirty years old when Germaine wrote her article for Aura, and by that time there were many other godchildren. 'Ruby probably has no idea how much I loved her or what a difference she made to my life,' she mused. But it was all a long time ago. Now, in 2000, her life was 'full of baby surrogates, animals and birds that need nursing, that run to meet me when I open the door, as Ruby used to, all those years ago'.27\n\nGermaine knew that her reproductive system was severely compromised. When the old and trusted gynaecologist in Sydney failed to restore her fertility, she told the Aura journalist, she commissioned a Harley Street gynaecologist to perform a long, expensive and complicated operation that left her with one healthy fallopian tube and a uterus free of fibroids.28\n\nIn 1977, she met a young man who, she decided, would make an excellent father for her baby. He was James Hughes-Onslow, old Etonian, six years her junior and a freelance writer. As he told the story more than twenty years later, they first met when he was covering the story of that year's Notting Hill Carnival for The Spectator. It was a sultry Saturday evening, racial trouble was brewing, and Germaine was sitting on the balcony of her house at 54 Cambridge Gardens reading a new book on Byron that she had been commissioned to review. He looked up, they fell into conversation and she invited him to join her on the balcony, where she gave him a lecture on the causes of racial tension in Britain generally and Notting Hill in particular. Then he returned to the street, where he was attacked by group of drug-affected black youths, who left him in the gutter.\n\nWhen he came to his senses, he decided to return to Germaine's house. She comforted him, gave him food and drinks and offered him a bed, though not with her. Soon, other victims of the riots, black and white, followed. She looked after them all as the troubles continued over the weekend. 'Germaine had a powerful, caring side to her nature,' commented Hughes-Onslow. 'I noticed a strong maternal tendency which was sadly underused.'29\n\nTwo days later, they chanced to meet at the Bloomsbury offices of The Spectator, where he was delivering his article on the riots and she her review of the Byron book. Germaine invited him to go with her to a party being held by socialite Olga Deterding in her Green Park penthouse. Perceiving them as a couple, some guests at the party tried to ingratiate themselves with him in the hope that he would bring her to dinner at their houses. He declined because, he said, he disliked dinner parties where he didn't know anyone.\n\nSoon Germaine invited him to Pianelli, where they embarked on a love affair, with the intent of conceiving a child. He admired her domestic arrangements and noted how she 'communed' with her cats and with Lisa, her housekeeper, who, although she addressed her as 'La Dottoressa', clearly respected her as a fellow survivor in the tough Tuscan hills.\n\nOne evening they visited a vineyard owned by the Lamborghini family. Germaine enthused over the venture as an example of how the wealthy were supporting the local community. Hughes-Onslow disagreed, arguing that the family were using the vineyard as a test site for their latest capitalist enterprises. She called him a cynic, but, later, at dinner with the Lamborghinis and speaking in Italian, she used his arguments 'with devastating effect, and far more lucidly'. 'How clever it is to be able to change your mind so quickly and so completely, but ultimately, how confusing for her,' he thought.30\n\nThe gossip columnists soon picked up on the news that Germaine had chosen James Hughes-Onslow to become the father of her hoped-for child. He was not averse to the idea. 'I had noticed Germaine's caring instincts and thought she would make a wonderful mother. I was flattered to have been chosen as the father of the child and looked forward to having a useful role in the child's life as well as hers.'\n\nHe sought clarification of the situation. Was the baby to be recognised as his or not? Germaine assured him that he was indeed the man she had chosen to be the father of her child, and even consented to discuss the possibility of marriage, but in spite of her regular visits to the London clinic and several more romantic trips to Tuscany, no baby eventuated. She thought it might be his fault and even sent him off to be medically tested, but eventually she gave up on him and started an affair with another handsome old Etonian, the writer William Shawcross, who, being already the father of a three-year-old son, was not required to give further proof of his virility.31\n\nGermaine's lecture tours of the United States continued through the 1970s, barely keeping her financially afloat and often leaving her miserable and exhausted. Each tour was physically gruelling in that she was required to fly across the country (and she disliked flying), enduring brief hotel stays in city after city within very short time frames. At each venue, she had to perform before audiences who had paid a high entrance fee to listen to her views on sex, birth control, abortion and women's rights. Ever the consummate performer, she rose magnificently to every occasion and the newspaper reviews recorded strong attendances and enthusiastic responses everywhere she went. The lectures became an important aspect of her influence and success in transforming the lives of an entire generation. In 2018, many of the ideas and propositions she expounded in those American lectures have become orthodox \u2013 even humdrum. In the mid-1970s, they were revolutionary.\n\nSince the release of relevant documents in Greer's archive, researchers have gained powerful new insights into this period of her life. Of these documents, none is more significant than her 'Long letter to a short love, or . . .', written to journalist and writer Martin Amis in 1976 (she never completed the title).\n\nAt more than thirty thousand words, this letter was indeed long, and the man to whom she wrote it was short \u2013 only five feet four inches tall and embarrassed about his height. They had had a brief affair but he was in a committed relationship with fashion journalist Julie Kavanagh. Germaine had multiple lovers in England and the United States. On the face of it, Amis was not her usual type, but academic and journalist Margaret Simons, who discovered the letter in Greer's archive in 2014, put her finger on the probable nature of his attraction for Germaine when she noted Kavanagh's comment that Amis's former misgivings about his physical unattractiveness 'had given way to Byronic magnetism', so that 'everyone was after him . . . from Germaine Greer to [magazine editor] Mark Boxer'.32\n\nBefore she left for Heathrow, en route to one American tour, Greer spoke with Amis on the telephone and he suggested that she write to him while she was away. So she bought a hardback A5 notebook (now housed in the archive). While waiting for her delayed flight in the British Airways lounge, 'for all the world as if I was rich and famous', she started to write.\n\nAmis became her imaginary companion for the duration of her trip, much like those pretend friends with whom some lonely young children have endless conversations, or that mysterious personal God and all the saints and angels Catholics are taught to confide in.\n\nFor every city, she had a story for her lover. In Las Vegas \u2013 a place she detested \u2013 she told him how she drove, hooting and waving encouragingly, through streets lined by striking hospitality workers. She wondered how the celebrities \u2013 Sammy Davis Jr, Ann-Margret et al. \u2013 were managing to find something to eat. Warming up TV dinners perhaps. In British Columbia, where she was finally able to obtain a decent cup of tea, 'a young swollen pallid person' fainted at her lecture when she was talking about the horrors of IUDs. In Chicago, her luggage, containing Amis's novel Dead Babies, was left behind and she panicked. 'God how glad I am you're here . . .' she wrote pathetically. In Montana she had a restorative sauna. 'My breasts seem to have climbed back to their usual position and the furrows in my face have shrunk away . . .' Then on she went to Phoenix, Seattle, Vancouver, Calgary and Jerome, Arizona, where she discovered the county's female sheriff 'complete with hand tooled belt, silver and turquoise buckle, tear gas canister, revolver and handcuffs'. On a two-day break from the circuit she hired a Gran Torino sports car and drove 820 miles around Arizona, 'tearing around the backblocks at high speed', and spending a night in a fake log cabin with a view of the Grand Canyon.\n\nShe mostly travelled alone, but she had an American sexual partner, based in Detroit. He satisfied her physically, but his 'undemanding mind' irritated her and made her restive. Her advice to him, to 'try fucking first and talking later', seems to have worked, for she reported to Amis that once a certain 'crustiness' was overcome, their sexual encounters became smooth, 'like cr\u00e8me brulee'.\n\nThe worst thing she got from this lover was pubic lice, also known as crabs. She told Amis how she discovered the little creatures. (In 1993 she provided more detail in an article for The Guardian.) At the time, she was staying at the super-luxurious Beverly Wilshire hotel in Los Angeles, where she met 'dear Woody Allen' on the steps. She may also have run into Elizabeth Taylor, who was staying there as well. Having identified the crabs, with the help of a large magnifying mirror, in her eyebrows and 'goodness knew where else', she spent the rest of the evening in her sumptuous bathroom, hunting for more until she had discovered 'two adults, a teenager and assorted eggs', which she methodically placed in an ashtray. She assumed that she had contracted them from her Detroit lover, but it was possible that she may have had them longer, and may even have passed some on to Amis. 'The unspeakable question is could I, by any concatenation of adverse influences have given them to you?' She rang her boyfriend in Detroit, who 'pretended' to be furious with her when, in her opinion, it was her turn to be furious with him.\n\nThe next morning, Sunday, she went downstairs to Hernando's Hideaway, the hotel restaurant, where she found the famous pop star Frank Zappa and his wife Gail quietly enjoying coffee over the morning newspapers. They invited her to join them and, having done so, she launched into the sad tale of her crabs. Far from being shocked or surprised at her frankness, Zappa, proclaiming himself to be an authority on crabs, declared that he would take care of it. He called for his car, a black Rolls-Royce with smoked glass windows, and in it they set off for Schwab's drugstore. 'Blue lotion!' demanded Zappa loudly, to the amazement of the young 'would be Lana Turners' who were draping themselves across the stools by the counter in this, the most famous drugstore in the world. 'Blue lotion please, for the crabs!'33\n\nOne annoying consequence of the crabs was that she felt she could not carry out her plan of contacting her occasional lover Warren Beatty. She feared that he might not appreciate her, in her infested state.\n\nUpon arrival back home in London, Germaine wrote the final entries in her notebook. Exhausted and miserable, she despaired when she found that her entire earnings from that lecture tour would be consumed by bills that had arrived while she was away. She decided that the letter would never be sent. At some level, she recognised the image of Martin Amis she had created for the chimera it was.\n\nThis despairing cry to someone who hardly exists will never be heard . . . It is better for him and for me that this book remains closed. I do not care as much as I wish I did, and he is not what I wish I cared for . . . For a month and from 6,000 miles away, I loved him well.\n\nAnd, at an even deeper level, she had come to understand that her image of Amis was a self-image, an imposition of her alter ego upon the idea of him, created to assuage her own feelings of loneliness and abandonment.\n\nHow can I dismiss you, my own darling? I have no choice. In the month that has passed since you telephoned and bade me begin my letter, I have come to rely on you absolutely, but I have also made you in my own image, simply imposed my alter-ego upon you, and with it all my passion, and alas all my loneliness. I dare not allow irrelevant reality to intrude upon this self-indulgence.34\n\nBefore the second wave of feminism, few people had bothered to consider the question of why the visual arts, over the centuries, had been so persistently the preserve of men, and no one had written about the absurdity of this situation. It is a mark of the success of the women's movement that at least six books on the subject had appeared by the end of the 1970s, but if this was a bandwagon, Germaine cannot be accused of jumping aboard when she wrote her second book, The Obstacle Race; first, because her contribution to the sexual revolution had been so influential in creating the interest, and second, because, as she had remarked as early as at the Town Hall debate in 1971, the question of why female artists did not achieve like men had been on her mind since she was a precocious little girl. The idea of writing a book about it had been growing in her mind for a very long time.\n\nGermaine is a natural scholar who rarely feels more in control of her life than when she is sitting in libraries fossicking through books and papers and other evidence of human endeavour. She also loves art and never tires of exploring galleries and museums. This is the side of her character that is the most straightforward, and it has not changed from the days when Clive James tried in vain to extract her from the library at Cambridge. In the later 1970s, the work of researching and writing The Obstacle Race provided a merciful escape and distraction from the horrors of dealing with banks and accountants, facing up to the likelihood that she would be permanently infertile, and trying to get along with people who annoyed her. It also meant that she would earn some money to replenish her alarmingly depleted finances.\n\nIn seeking answers to her question of why no woman has achieved the stature of artists like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, Germaine's research led her to the work of virtually unknown female painters like Natalia Goncharova and Berthe Morisot, and to those whose contributions were impaired by their subservience to men they loved, such as the German modernist Paula Modersohn-Becker. The nineteen chapters of the book are divided into two sections: 'The Obstacles' and 'How They Ran'. In the first section, which is a feminist analysis, the obstacles are identified as 'Family', 'Love', 'The Illusion of Success', 'Humiliation', 'Dimension', 'Primitivism' and 'The Disappearing Oeuvre'. The second part of the book deals with the actual achievements of female artists. Organised chronologically, it focuses on the genres in which women excelled: flower painting, still life and portraiture.\n\nThe book was published in 1979 and reviews, as she had feared, were mixed. Critics acknowledged that she provided valuable insights into the difficulties faced by women artists in a field that had long been dominated by men, but they were quick to point out that her professional areas of scholarship were literature and feminism before art. Art historians remarked that she was more at home writing the first section of her book than the second. Some also criticised her tedious habit of laboriously detailing lists and examples, and her failure to engage more fully with complex theoretical issues.\n\nAlthough the author has obviously done an enormous amount of research on her subject, her discussion here is weakened by a conflict between the attempt to deal incisively with the various complex theoretical issues involved in women's creative achievement and an effort to attain scholarly and historical completeness.\n\n. . . in these historical chapters one tends to bog down in lists, ponderous as the 'begats' in the Bible, of the once- or near-famous and their relatives and supporters.35\n\nThe London Review of Books' review of The Obstacle Race was scathing, and strangely misogynistic, almost as if its writer, the feminist Brigid Brophy, wanted to conduct a personal vendetta against Greer. She could find nothing to praise in the book, accusing Greer of having a 'one-eyed' view of history and of providing only limited explanation as to 'why women artists have, on the whole, painted so abysmally'. Like other critics, Brophy picked up Germaine's annoying penchant for making long lists of examples.\n\nMs Greer has searched written records and the reserve collections of galleries for every mention and trace of a woman painter. Her findings are numerous but seldom lively and she has relentlessly put them all in. Her text is weighted down, sometimes twice to a page, with mere lists, which, since there are notes at the back, could with more kindness to the reader have gone there.36\n\nThe 1970s had brought Germaine Greer international fame; they had seen her become rich; they had allowed her to make friends among some of the most exciting people of her generation. Yet, by decade's end, she was unhappy. 'Oh I'm neurotic. Is there any doubt about that?' she told Liz Fell in 1979.\n\nI don't have any enduring relationships of any sort except with animals and plants. Human beings come and go . . . Oh shit, why would I be happy? What reason would I have to be happy? I mean, I'm happy enough, I've got me garden, got me cats.37\n\nIn the European autumn of 1979, she left England for America to take up a post as visiting Professor at the University of Tulsa in Oklahoma and, subsequently, founding director of the university's Center for the Study of Women's Literature. Tulsa was geographically and intellectually a long way from the Europe of Greer's cultural roots; it lacked the sophistication of New York or Washington and did not even have the charm of southern towns like Charleston or New Orleans. So why would she go there?\n\nHer first reason was the dire state of her finances. Records in the Greer archive show that on 13 November 1978 she received a writ notifying her of the case 'The Commissioner of Inland Revenue v. Dr Germaine Greer of 54 Cambridge Gardens London W 10, Defendant', to be heard in the High Court of Justice, Queen's Bench Division, regarding her failure to meet her taxation commitments. Eight months later, the debt still unpaid, she was informed that the Solicitor of Inland Revenue had been instructed to commence bankruptcy proceedings against her for the non-payment of \u00a337,095.70 in tax, plus interest.\n\nOn 19 June 1979 her accountant argued, unsuccessfully, on her behalf.\n\nOur client had extraordinary success with her first book, some ten years ago. She made very proper and adequate reserves for her taxation liabilities. That reserve was invested in what we believe was a most reputable and secure finance house, Vavasseur Limited. In the slump of 74\/75 and the virtual liquidation of Vavasseur, that reserve was wiped out. What remaining funds Dr Greer had were invested in a property which, equally disastrously, slumped . . . She wasn't fraudulent or negligent . . . Since that time her income has not been sufficiently substantial to meet these old tax liabilities, although she has made valiant efforts and has in fact paid substantial sums to you.38\n\nDisaster was averted, eventually, after the accountant pointed out that bankruptcy proceedings would not produce any further payment and could indeed jeopardise her further income and payments. He was supported by Germaine's friend and agent Peter Grose, who feared that if she were not treated with sympathy, she would be unable to work. 'Authors are not machines and cannot be made to produce on demand,' he wrote. 'For the better part of a year now, I have seen concern over her financial situation begin to dominate her thinking, and this tax question is her most pressing worry.'39\n\nThe University of Tulsa was not offering a huge salary, but the appointment would take her out of the country and leave her advisers to manage the negotiations with the Department of Inland Revenue in her absence. She could rent out the flat she had bought in London after selling her house, while living rent-free at Pianelli and the university.\n\nShe also went to Tulsa because she was invited to undertake work that interested her and that she felt to be important. She wanted to resume the academic career she had left when she resigned from Warwick University in 1972, and she wanted to keep investigating and promoting the work of female writers. She worried that art historian reviewers of The Obstacle Race would accuse her of 'not [knowing] me arse from me elbow' (which they did), but in discovering and chronicling the lives and work of women in her own professional field of literature, as the Tulsa appointment would empower her to do, she would be on safer ground. The provincial university might have been relatively small and unknown outside the United States, but it was far-sighted enough to offer support for her groundbreaking work. No comparable invitation from Oxford or Cambridge or any other more prestigious institution had come her way.\n\nObviously, too, she wanted a break \u2013 not just a holiday but a break from London, the epicentre of all the economic, social and emotional complications of her life. She knew she was at a turning point. Forty years old, her groupie days long behind her, the excitement of the first flush of celebrity a bittersweet memory, her hopes of becoming a mother in tatters, she took comfort, as always, in the constancy of her work.\n\nShe was still nervous about how The Obstacle Race would be received by readers. 'I have a feeling of vertigo about this book . . . I wish I'd done it better. I wish I were doing it over,' she confided to People magazine journalist Andrea Chambers in 1979. 'I don't know what I feel . . . if I feel jealous or like I'm going to be left, I'll tear my throat out before I let it show. I hate it whenever I feel my control is slipping. When I do, I just get in the car and drive. I spend all my time leaving people.'\n\nHer plan was to spend half the year in Tulsa and the other half at Pianelli, where she hoped to retire. 'I'm happiest farming my land with my bottom in the air and my hands in the mud,' she told Chambers. 'I'll be stark naked and brown as a nut. At the end of the day, I'll come home and take the cat out of the best chair and I'll read and write fiction . . . I hope, of course, that the men will come and go.'40\n\nShe later told journalist Richard Boeth that she had chosen Tulsa 'because it was a rich university that didn't know quite what to do with its money'. As it turned out, however, she had to fight many a battle with the university's administration to get the funds she needed to realise her dream of setting up a first-rate scholarly institution dedicated to women's writing and staffed by women. 'It was rich,' she told Boeth, 'and it doesn't quite know what to do with its money because it hates to spend it.'41\n\nShari Benstock, who took over the directorship of the Tulsa Center for the Study of Women's Literature after Greer left in 1983, has described her as an inspiration to the Center's small academic staff and graduate students, but Germaine struggled to maintain her patience with some of them. The seven students who were helping her to prepare an early manuscript for hand-printing, she told Richard Boeth, were 'in scholarly terms simply illiterate . . . Not one could name an English poet of the eighteenth century. One thought maybe Kipling . . .'42 Tulsa was proving hard work.\n\nHer base at the university was 'the Red House', a small cottage on campus that was surrounded by parking lots and dead trees. It was here, in 1980, that Greer established the journal Tulsa Studies in Women's Literature, which was the first, and for a time the only, one in the world that was dedicated to the study of women's literary history.\n\nBenstock wrote about Greer's work in Tulsa with a reverence that bordered on adulation, but as in her pre-Eunuch days at Warwick, when she was a serious academic on weekdays and a groupie and contributor to underground magazines at weekends, the Tulsa Germaine Greer, if Andrea Chambers' People article is to be believed, had another life. This Germaine, wrote Chambers, liked to hoon around the county in a rented Mustang with a bottle of Jack Daniels under the seat. At night, she would sit in the smoky corners of what, in Tulsa, passed for bohemian bars, drinking copious quantities of bourbon and encouraging the local performers in the vernacular. 'Gawwwd damnnnn!' she would cry out, and 'Yip!', her dark hair thrown back, her long legs splayed. 'I think I am a potential alcoholic,' she confided to Chambers, 'and I can't afford the only drug I like, which is coke.'43\n\nIt was now two years since she had undergone the complex operation that, she continued to hope, might restore her fertility. She had been forced to acknowledge the effects of her lifestyle on her body, but she still liked men and she still believed in liberated sex. The raunchy males of Oklahoma were much to her taste. 'Let me advise any unhappy career girl in New York to hightail it down here,' she said. 'It's like Rome. Men follow you in the supermarkets.' Nevertheless, as she went on to explain to a fascinated Chambers, she was now practising periods of sexual abstinence, and she was less enthusiastic about sex than of yore. '[I]t takes a fair amount of persuasion to get me back on men.' She was no lesbian, she declared, but she looked to women before men for emotional comfort. 'For support, it's women. I sleep with men. I don't expect anything else from them.'44\n\nIn April 1980, she received a letter from a young French girl who was about to move out of home to live independently with a girlfriend. The letter was typical of many she received, in which the writers confided the most intimate details of their lives and asked her for advice. Depending on her inclination and workload at the time, she would reply to some of these letters with a brief comment or apology for not having time to write more, and to others sagely and at length. Her reply to the French girl's letter is an example of the latter.\n\nIn this sweetly naive letter the young girl confided the secrets of her relationship with her boyfriend and her uncertainty about how to respond to his sexual advances, explaining that, unlike Germaine Greer (parts of some of whose books she said she had read), her parents were very conservative. She begged the older woman for advice as to what she should do about her boyfriend and how she should live her life.\n\nIn her reply, Germaine opened her heart to this young stranger.\n\nLove is difficult; friendship is even more so. You ask me if I have children. The answer is No. If I have friends, permanent friends \u2013 the answer is that I don't know. It has been a bad year for friendships for me. There have been all kinds of misunderstandings and estrangements but I still believe as long as my friends are alive even if they are estranged from me there is hope that they will come to trust me again. Most of my friends are married and it is my experience that in times of conflict the couple asserts itself at the expense of the outsider. The family has a kind of dreadful durability which undermines and outlasts everything else, by force of exploiting and consuming it.\n\nYou do not tell me what you do; in the last analysis, it is our work that keeps us sane and makes a rudder for all those ups and downs.45\n\nAbout one month after her reply to the French girl, Germaine wrote to her friend and agent at that time, Gillon Aitken, telling him that she had found a new 'swain' in Tuscany. His name was John; he was a 'transplanted Englishman' who liked to walk across the hills between their houses, bringing her orchids he had picked along the way. He was 'strong and practical', and her maid and the contadini (farmers) respected him because he was a hard worker. A photograph now in the Greer archive shows a relaxed, bearded, handsome man of around forty years old \u2013 strong and practical, just as Germaine described him. He is driving a tractor. Germaine is seated behind him, smiling.46\n\nShe also told Richard Boeth about John. 'He's completely non-verbal . . . he dreams in shape and line . . . None of my boyfriends is ever an intellectual or an academic. I think it's restful to look for people who are restful to be with, to rescue you from the treadmill . . . Clever women should marry truck drivers.'47\n\nGermaine's letters to John tell of her many frustrations with the university administration at Tulsa and the effort she was putting into establishing her Center. They are loving, gentle letters. She writes of how much she longs to be with him and how much she misses 'his eyes upon [her] and his sandpaper hands'.48\n\nIn Germaine's absence, John employed his skills generously at Pianelli, rewiring the bathroom, fixing the plumbing, installing furniture, and doing heavy work in the garden with tractor and plough. He was sleeping in her bed (with the two cats) three nights a week, attending to all the practical tasks like getting the telephone connected and new cupboards delivered. Lisa, the maid, came up every day to work in the house and garden and feed the cats.\n\nIn one letter, John told Germaine about some interesting local gossip. The word in the village was that he and Germaine were planning to marry at Christmas. He had not been able to discover the source but he suspected that Lisa had been 'doing a few sums'.49\n\nWere they indeed planning to marry? It would seem so. On 3 April 1981, her accountant Alan Patten wrote to her from London: 'You raise the possibility of marrying a UK citizen who is resident in Italy.'50\n\nAnd on 25 September 1981, her solicitor wrote:\n\nDear Germaine,\n\nAlan Patten tells me that you have confirmed your probable marriage plans to him and wish to know how they might affect your position in the UK . . . I understand that your intended husband, although a UK citizen, is not resident in the UK . . .\n\nPS I hope you will ensure that we know about your wedding arrangements. I do not wish to read about them for the first time on the front page of The Sun.51\n\nWas it because Germaine was in love with John in the autumn of 1980 that the man to whom she was closest in Tulsa at this time was the writer David Plante, who was gay? She had known him in London and in Italy, where he had a stone cottage in the same district as Pianelli. Now, in September, they met again in the unlikely setting of the University of Tulsa, where Plante had been appointed writer-in-residence for the autumn term.\n\nPlante arrived in Tulsa a couple of days before Germaine returned there from Italy, also for the autumn term. On her arrival, it was arranged that the Dean would take both of them to dinner at a Chinese restaurant with his wife and children. When he and Plante drove up to the glitzy hotel where she was staying, she was waiting for them in the shade of the portico, carrying her shoes in her hand. Plante was surprised when he saw that her feet were broad and stubby. He had always thought of her as a kind of flawless goddess.\n\nI had, before, thought of her as beautiful beyond any fault. I had thought of her, large, standing high above me and looking down upon me, a very beautiful, public woman. Her feet made her, in one small part, a private woman.52\n\nIn the car, Germaine complained loudly to the Dean about the quality of the champagne in her hotel. No French to be had, only Californian, what a fucking provincial place she had come to! But Californian champagnes could be quite good, protested the Dean. Not good enough, she replied rudely. At dinner, she held the floor, lecturing her companions on the subjects of abortion and contraception. The situation was desperate all over the world, she told them. Infanticide was practised in certain cultures by smothering the baby or by placing a stick across its throat and standing on both ends. Plante could see that she had lost all awareness of her audience. He realised, with a kind of awe, that she was obsessed by the problems of the world. 'What's to be done?' she kept asking. 'About unwanted children, what's to be done?'\n\nPlante was given an office in Germaine's Center, on the opposite side of the kitchen from hers. On a white-hot day, Plante, Germaine and a male friend of hers, a native of Tulsa, worked happily together in the air-conditioned building, drinking champagne and eating chicken as they painted the interior walls of the cottage 'Liberty' red, Germaine's choice of colour for two rooms which she called the 'ventricles' of the heart of the Center. Plante stripped to his underpants. Germaine complimented him on his buttocks and caressed them. ('I like a nice ass.') She, as usual, wore no underclothes and he was aware of the power of her body under her thin dress. He paused often to kiss and embrace her, paint brush in the air. Whenever the other man turned around she poked her tongue out at him. Plante did not know or care if they were lovers.\n\nAfterwards, when the friend had left them, Germaine told Plante that this man had been with her at Pianelli, but that he had disappointed her by being 'unaware' of the beauty around him. He was so insensitive, she told Plante, that he was incapable, even, of being aware of the vastness and glory of his own Tulsan sky.\n\nNot so Germaine: 'She was always aware,' said Plante.\n\nAt 'home', in Tuscany, John, her new love, was also aware as he awaited her return. He was worried that she was overstraining herself and he was happy with her news that she and David had taken a short holiday together over the Thanksgiving period. His letters to Germaine are those of a domesticated househusband to an absent wife. He is no scholar \u2013 the letters contain many misspellings \u2013 but his handwriting is firm and he is articulate, even lyrical at times, as he describes the beauty of the countryside and the views across to the mountains. He could never live in any other place, he wrote.53\n\nGermaine's letters to John tell of the long hours she is working to make her Center a success. As Plante remarked, this was the one area of her life over which she had total control.\n\n[S]he arrived early in the morning and left late at night, and while she was there telephones rang all the time, typewriters clacked, papers appeared to fly about, and she, exuding the scent of patchouli, kept it all going . . . when she was away there was an air of quiet withdrawal among the students.54\n\nAs David Plante's friendship with Germaine deepened during the time they spent together at Tulsa, he observed her curious habit of revealing to groups of virtual strangers details of her life that most people would only share with a close friend. She rarely discussed personal matters with him, but once, at a party, he found her telling a full room of people about her family. Surprised, but wanting to know more about her, he found a chair, sat down and listened with everyone else. Similarly, he learned about her problems with showing affection when he was part of a larger audience to whom she disclosed that when greeting an ardent lover at an airport she would 'grow rigid' and ask him if he had had the plumber in or the car repaired. And how she did not like to share a bed with a man she had just made love with, but preferred to sleep on the floor beside the bed.55\n\nEventually, Plante concluded that Germaine Greer was interested only in public issues, not personal ones. 'You can't presume to be intimate with her. Even in private, she's public,' he confided to a friend.\n\nI don't think Germaine really has friends, close friends, and I think she doesn't because she's not interested in her relationships, she's not interested in herself. She's only interested in other people, and that, somehow, depersonalizes her interest.56\n\nBut still he thought he loved her.\n\nMeanwhile, in Tuscany, John was still dreaming of Germaine, longing for her return to Pianelli. Germaine kept his letters and copies of her letters to him. They are now contained in a special envelope in the 'General correspondence' section of her archive. Most are undated; they carry headings like 'Friday' or 'Thursday the somethingth'. However, the final letter from John is dated \u2013 '16.11.81'. He writes with enthusiasm about her 'grand idea' that they should spend Christmas in New York. 'How much I love the Autumn here,' he says, 'and how much I love you.'57\n\nThe marriage did not eventuate. John and Germaine remained friends.\n\nLater, after she returned to live in England, Germaine was so incensed when she discovered that David Plante had written about their time together in Tulsa in his book Difficult Women that she vowed never to speak to him again. It mattered nothing that he had offered to show her what he had written and invited her to amend it if she wanted to.\n\nI despised him for being so ready to change his work, and also because \u2013 though he made a great parade of sensitivity \u2013 he had no idea how deeply I would resent being made to utter namby-pamby Plante-speak like a dummy on his knee.58\n7\n\nRecalibration\n\nShout for joy, O barren one, you who have borne no child . . . For the sons of the desolate one will be more numerous than the sons of the married woman.\n\nIsaiah 54:1\n\nIn her third major book, Sex and Destiny, which was first published in 1984, shortly after she returned from Tulsa to resume her life in England, Germaine Greer faced up to the challenges that confront women as they approach middle age. Now in her fifth decade, she wanted not only to express her views on women as they reached that stage of life, but also to apply her blowtorch to larger questions about human fertility, sterility, abortion, birth control and, for her, the very personal dilemma of 'barrenness'.\n\nHer repeated use of this word, 'barrenness', together with much of the content and mood of Sex and Destiny, is reflective of her religious upbringing. As always, she detested orthodoxies and was appalled at the thought of women's lives being controlled by the men of the Catholic Church. She was never about to return to her roots and speak up in support of the Pope, but by the time she sat down to write Sex and Destiny, in the early 1980s, she had come to the other side of a personal rebellion and wanted to share the lessons she had learned. In her youth she had joyfully defied the repressive beliefs of her religion and culture, but now, as she faced the physical and emotional consequences of her adventures, she needed to explore what it had all meant. Was unrestrained sexual freedom really in the best interests of women? Was loss of fecundity \u2013 barrenness \u2013 the price to be paid for denying the natural connection between sexual congress and new life? How could she explain to herself and her sisters not only her own personal disappointment and despair at the loss of her fertility, but the dangers confronting unwitting young women who were setting off on the path she had so recently travelled?1\n\nWith apparent but by no means exclusive reference to her own experience, she describes in Sex and Destiny many of the physical problems that can make a woman infertile: fallopian tube obstruction, pelvic inflammatory disease as a result of infection, abdominal surgery, abortions, curettes, and insertion, expulsion or removal of an IUD. She covers the lifestyle factors of smoking, alcohol abuse, medications, stress and the postponement of pregnancy until later in a woman's reproductive life, and does not forget to mention the expensive medical interventions that exist to counteract the loss of fertility, with their false hopes and promises.\n\nLike a caring mother or older sister, she sets out to inform young women about the possible negative consequences of recreational sex. She found examples galore and lists them all. One is infection by the gonorrhoea bacillus, which, she explains, is a malign organism that is 'uncommonly well adapted for dwelling in humans' and may be asymptomatic. Other organisms with similar effects include the Chlamydiae species of bacteria and common fungal infections like Candida albicans. With her usual attention to detail, she explores every clinical component of the many ills that sexually transmitted diseases can inflict on the female human body.2\n\nOnly belatedly, it seems, had she come to realise that male bodies not only have less to lose from casual sex than women's, but that men are better protected by the patriarchy. She notes that while the bodies of travelling rock stars are looked after by the commercial entities for which they generate profit, the bodies of the women who service them are not. On every tour, she explains, the young men are given supplies of broad-spectrum antibiotics to treat any unwanted side effects of their sexual activities before they move on to their next gig. It is unthinkable, she comments, that a multimillion-dollar performance might be ruined because the lead singer has a 'prurient greenish-yellow discharge leaking through his tight white satin trousers'. No one would think of the women the young musicians might have infected, apart from the inconvenience of leaving them as a possible source of infection for the next group of men they pleasured. 'Many a young woman,' Greer comments, 'returns from her adventure sterile, and when, years later, she sits tense and miserable with the doctor who is doing her infertility workup, she can no longer remember that dreadful stomach ache and fever that she treated with erythromycin . . . somewhere between Agra and Benares.'3\n\nFor intellectual and spiritual inspiration, she returns, as always, to literature: Shakespeare, Yeats, Lawrence, Joyce, Robert Graves, Joseph Conrad and the rest \u2013 those writers for whom fecundity, she believed, was always 'the underlying principle of a moral system in which productivity and creativity were the metaphors'. Even the hard-headed Clive James, she noted, had recognised 'the fructive energy' in Jane Austen. ('She chose Art [over sex] and put all her fructive energy into it. The force she shapes to her symmetrical designs is the force that shapes the world.'4)\n\nT.S. Eliot, she reports, had recognised fecundity's 'barren' opposite:\n\nIndustrialist society was to be seen as a barren landscape inhabited by Hollow Men, important debased creatures performing meaningless tasks in rented accommodation, with only the barest recollection of a virile time when they fought at the hot gates.5\n\nReaders of Sex and Destiny who expected a succinct, well-argued exposition of Greer's latest ideas on the condition and circumstances of women's lives fifteen years after The Female Eunuch were disappointed. With its 500-plus pages of dense writing and often unnecessary detail, the book is not an easy read, and is less coherent and less powerful than her first book.\n\nRespected critic Michael Mason, in the London Review of Books, pointed out that Sex and Destiny's three central arguments \u2013 first, that genital, recreational sex is overvalued in our culture; second, that birth control programs in the third world are unnecessary, ineffectual and cruel; and third, that families that stress the procreative relationship are preferable to those which stress the conjugal relationship \u2013 are not well connected. Each of these arguments, he says, deserves consideration, but her treatment of them both individually and as a cluster of ideas is 'poor' and 'even unprincipled'. Specifically, he points to her 'obsessive' bias against the West in favour of the developing world. While noting some merit in her contention that the West does not have the right to impose its ideas about birth control on other societies, he points out that this does not justify Greer's position that all non-Western procreative practices and customs should be inviolate. This applies in particular to her apparent endorsement of practices such as infanticide and clitoridectomy. It also applies, he argues, to her apparent sanctioning of the practice, still used in some societies, of 'culling' disabled babies at birth. (Some tribal mothers, Greer noted approvingly, 'bashed their new-borns' brains out with a rock' when social and other circumstances warranted).6\n\nFollowing the publication of Sex and Destiny in 1984, newspaper editors were inundated with letters from people who accused Greer of turning her back on the feminist credo through which she had made her mark with The Female Eunuch. She herself had anticipated this kind of criticism.\n\nSuch an attack upon the ideology of sexual freedom, usually, and quite correctly, called permissiveness, must seem shocking coming from a sexual radical, as the present writer professes to be. It is galling to find oneself lined up with bigots and body haters, as it were circumstantially, when the point of opposition to contemporary sex religion is that it is based in a dreary, circumscribed and thoroughly predictable version of human libido.7\n\nGalling though she may have found her supposed place among the bigots and body-haters, there could be no resiling from her new position (remarkably similar to that of the Catholic Church) that the concept of untrammelled recreational sex divorced from notions of child-bearing and rearing was selfishly narcissistic, ultimately boring, dangerous for women and destructive of the best conceptions of family life. From these considerations, it followed, for her, that the West's attempts to impose its sexual values and practices, especially its newer methods of artificial birth control and sterilisation, on developing societies were ethically unacceptable.\n\nSome of Greer's readers who had paid a heavy price for their sexual freedom could see what she was driving at. 'M\/s Germaine Greer may be responsible for more women being sterile due to blocked tubes than any other female guru in recent history,' wrote one of her correspondents. 'We girls believed [Greer's earlier claims that problems of VD and unwanted pregnancy were easily solved], but many of us realized years ago that now, as always in shifting relationships, it is the woman who pays the price. I am glad that M\/s Greer has come to the same conclusion and I admire her for having the courage to say so.' This woman, who called herself 'a victim of the former state of affairs', signed her letter only as 'W.H.'8\n\nW.H. understood Greer's arguments better than critics like moral philosopher Peter Singer, who claimed that Sex and Destiny made it hard to see her as a feminist at all.9 W.H. could see that, belatedly, and probably on the basis of her own experience, Greer had come to realise what her more cautious sisters back in the Push days could have told her then: men can and do manipulate the notion of sexual freedom to suit themselves, and the consequences for women can be dire. Sex and Destiny, like The Female Eunuch, was concerned with the power imbalance between men and women. Greer's book was not anti-feminist; she had simply reached another stage in her life and, as always, she wanted to explore and share her new insights.\n\nAfter her return to England from Tulsa in 1983, Germaine continued to travel widely for pleasure and work. She never tired of visiting the theatres and galleries of continental Europe; she liked America and had many friends there. As a working journalist and humanitarian, she was also advancing and disseminating her knowledge of the people and cultures of developing countries \u2013 India, Ethiopia, Pakistan and others \u2013 becoming ever more convinced that Western influences were depriving them of much that was of value. Her visits to Australia were also becoming more frequent.\n\nIn the late 1970s, after she sold 54 Cambridge Gardens, she bought an apartment in West London at 20 Westbourne Terrace, where she lived for several years when she was not at Pianelli or travelling. From this, her London base, she could readily access everything she needed and valued for her work and cultural life. She was also able to enjoy a satisfying social life with friends who, as well as old mates like Richard Neville and Martin Sharp, included some of the most significant literary and artistic figures of the day. Her archive provides accounts of amusing dinners and lunches with congenial company at hotels, restaurants and private homes. She took every opportunity to spend time with Australian visitors, including Margaret Fink and her family, who generally stayed with her or at Claridge's.\n\nBefore the rift caused by his 'sin' of writing about her in his book Difficult Women, the writer David Plante and his partner, the well-known art publisher Nikos Stangos, were regular members of her social circle. In his memoir, Becoming a Londoner: A diary, Plante provides some fascinating insights into Germaine's social world at this time in her life. One of his descriptions is of a dinner party he attended at her apartment in Westbourne Terrace, where she served individual souffl\u00e9s, boiled mutton with a caper sauce, and rhubarb sponge, everything prepared on a huge cooker in her kitchen with its many ovens and hobs. The wines, he noted, were exceptionally good.\n\nGermaine had organised this dinner in honour of the Australian writer David Malouf. Among the guests were poet Stephen Spender and his wife Natasha, a concert pianist. The telephone rang constantly during the meal and other people, including broadcaster, journalist and politician Melvyn Bragg, kept arriving. Germaine, who was doing everything herself, seemed frazzled. 'I had the vivid sense of a woman entertaining completely on her own who was frantic that she wasn't up to the entertainment.' She did not sit down and relax with her guests but, 'like an Italian peasant woman', prepared the courses and served them while her guests were eating. Everyone commented on the excellence of her food, but she kept apologising, saying it wasn't good enough.10\n\nPlante, whose intense interest in human behaviour often led him to delve into the personal lives and characters of the people he would later write about, looked to items in Germaine's home that might provide insight into the kind of person she was. For a start there was the huge cooker, testament to her love of preparing good food. There was also a large chest of drawers lined with mother-of-pearl. When Plante admired it, she offered it to him, saying she didn't like it. 'So I saw in her an attraction to the extravagant and, at the same time, indifference to that extravagance . . .'11\n\nThis apparent oscillation between passionate engagement and sudden indifference, Plante believed, extended to her personal relationships.\n\nShe can be so intimate, taking one's chin into her hand and staring into one's eyes as if one were the only person in the world, and then she turns away and she sees something altogether unrelated to one that leaves one totally apart, leaving one to wonder what that intimacy was all about.12\n\nGermaine also socialised with Plante and Stangos at their flat. On one occasion the historian Steven Runciman was among the guests. After meeting Germaine, he was inspired to compose a limerick, which he subsequently sent to Plante:\n\nThey told me to stay clear\n\nOf the formidable doctor Greer\n\nBut, in spite of her learning\n\nFor all my discerning\n\nI find her rather a dear.13\n\nAt one stage, Germaine acquired the flat that adjoined hers and made plans to combine the two units into one large residence, but by 1984 she was growing tired of the London literary scene and the stressful congestion of city traffic and life. The time she had spent in developing countries, especially famine-struck Ethiopia, had convinced her that Western urban society had lost touch with the most basic and essential human values as practised in other cultures. She was happiest in Tuscany, but felt cut off there from the world of books and culture that was so necessary to her. The planned displacement of the Reading Room of the British Museum where she, like so many other famous writers, loved to work, was the last straw.14\n\nOn 9 January 1985, she wrote to her old friend and mentor, Professor Anne Barton (previously Righter):\n\nI've been going through a minor brain-storm recently and have decided to return to Cambridge for good, if I can find the right house not too far from the university library as the car flies. Since I got back from Ethiopia I find I'm tired of London and the looming dismantlement of the British Museum Reading Room is severing the only bond.\n\nI am not, however, tired of life. Dr Johnson being wrong about that as he was about everything else.15\n\nLater in 1985, she found an enduring solution to her dilemmas in a property, The Mills (then known as Mill Farm), at Stump Cross, near the town of Saffron Walden in Essex. On first sight it did not seem to be what she was looking for. The building had originally been a terrace of cheerless one-up one-down houses for farm labourers and their families. New owners had renovated it to make it one house, but it was very close to a road that led to a busy roundabout only two hundred yards away. This road and roundabout were at the end of an access road for the M11 motorway. Visitors might notice the noise, she said, but she would grow accustomed to it. After deciding to buy the property and renovating it extensively, she lived there most of each year into the second decade of the twenty-first century.\n\nAfter moving to The Mills, she was made an honorary fellow of her old college, Newnham, and given unrestricted access to the Cambridge university libraries. She also set up on her property a small but successful publishing house, Stump Cross Books, which continues to make available works by female writers. In a separate building from the main house, above a large garage, she set up her 'workshop' for writing and research. This pleasant and generous room was where she, her administrative assistants, and various helpers, students and scholars could apply themselves to her many projects. This space was also used to store her growing archive, before it found its final home at the University of Melbourne in 2013.\n\nWhy did she choose this initially unpromising house at such a noisy location? The answer is at least twofold. First, the property was less than half an hour's drive to Cambridge and its libraries. Second, it was the country \u2013 3.6 acres surrounded by rolling Essex fields \u2013 and she looked forward to transforming the house and garden into the kind of domestic paradise she had achieved at Pianelli. Eventually, one acre of the property became a garden to complement the house, with roses, honeysuckle, lavender and as many exotic plants as she could encourage to survive in the English climate. In the second acre she planted a wood, where she had a bed in the form of a platform raised about four feet from the ground with a foam mattress for sleeping on on summer nights. (Occasionally she would take a bottle of gin with her.) Sometimes it would rain on her, and this she quite liked, choosing to move only when her bedclothes became saturated. An orchard and vegetable and herb gardens in the third acre supplied fresh produce for her table; eggs were collected each morning from the geese and hens, each of which had a name. Then came the domestic animals, Livingstone the parrot, Mollie and Margot the standard poodles, and her beloved cats, Christopher, a red-and-white Persian, and Shanghai Jim, a silver shorthair. Jim liked to sleep outside when it was not too cold, but Christopher, who competed with Livingstone to sit on Germaine's shoulder, preferred to sleep with her in her bed.\n\nInside the house, the generously proportioned drawing and dining rooms were furnished on quite a grand scale, with luxurious couches, carefully selected antiques and pictures, rich drapes, and interesting rugs on the parquet and stone-flagged floor. Upstairs were three bedrooms, including her own with ensuite dressing room, and a cosy, well-stocked library with comfortable seating and a television set. Guests could stay in the house or in one of several outbuildings that included a small, self-contained cottage. Most rooms had distant views across the Essex countryside; the rear windows of the main house overlooked a walled garden with colourful herbaceous borders and a small stream that flowed to a waterfall and then down to a sunken pool beyond.\n\nIn the regular columns she wrote for several newspapers over nearly three decades, Germaine referred to 'everyone' who lived with her at The Mills. But who was 'everyone'? In 1999, James Hughes-Onslow, he who, long ago, had failed to fulfil Germaine's dream of making him the father of her hoped-for child, visited her at The Mills with his wife and four children. He wrote about her habit of referring to her household as 'We'. Who did she mean by this 'We', he wondered: 'Does she refer to her occasional lodgers, her cats, her poodles or her geese?'\n\n'When I have visited her with my wife and family,' he continued, 'I have felt a sense of sadness touched with envy . . . She is a generous and loving person who does not deserve to be lonely in her old age. I suspect this is why she is always busy.'16\n\nUsually, 'everyone' seemed to be the young people, mostly students, whom she described in her columns as 'OPCs' (Other Peoples' Children) or 'NPGs' (Non-Paying Guests). All were expected to work in the house, garden or workshop in appreciation of their board and lessons from Germaine in how to do literary and historical research. On the whole, the arrangement worked well. Never able to suffer fools, she occasionally despaired when one or more of them seemed lazy, stupid or unwilling to perform their assigned tasks, but she became very fond of others, like the 'sparkly girl' who was so eager to work and to learn. She employed a small paid domestic staff: a housekeeper, an assistant to manage her correspondence and appointment diary, and a gardener. All were necessary for the smooth running of the household, especially when she was away, as she often was, at Pianelli, on journalistic assignments, or on lecture circuits and tours to promote her books.\n\nReaders of Germaine Greer's regular columns, especially Country Notebook, which was published weekly in the Saturday edition of the Daily Telegraph between 1999 and 2005, became familiar with her daily doings at The Mills. There are some memorable self-portraits of her rising early to cut lavender, picking strawberries and currants, black, red and white, and deciding what to do with the surplus of apricots and other fruit picked in the orchard \u2013 only so much could be frozen and turned into jam.\n\nWhen journalists Polly Toynbee and Jill Tweedie drove down to Essex, one glorious summer's day in May 1988, to visit Germaine for lunch, they found her in her kitchen preparing chapattis. Laid out on the table in the stone-flagged dining room, on a sunflower yellow cloth, were salads of curried potatoes, chickpeas and broad beans, guacamole, and a cold bottle of white wine.17\n\nConversation over lunch was brisk. Without rancour, the three women discussed the changes wrought by second-wave feminism in the twenty years since Germaine had written The Female Eunuch. Germaine was not optimistic. Younger women were still mincing around trying to please men, she opined, 'speaking in baby voices, and acting helpless'. They had yet to learn the lesson she had tried to impart: to take control of their own bodies and lives in order to live freely. Moving on to abortion, she spoke up in favour of motherhood. Every woman wants her child, she declared. The problem was that society did not provide the necessary support. She herself, she reminded them, had given practical and emotional aid to several needy unmarried women who wanted to keep their babies. She had many godchildren.\n\nAfter lunch they moved out into the garden. Christopher was stalking a small animal and Germaine did not restrain him. 'It's a rat,' she declared; but the other two women could see that it was a tiny vole, native to the area. Christopher played with it for a while before it escaped into a bush, while Germaine watched indulgently. Later he caught and ate it all except for the head. Germaine was not dismayed. 'She is besotted by her pets,' commented Toynbee.\n\nPerhaps feeling slightly queasy after this grisly episode, Tweedie wandered off to chat with some of the people, whom Toynbee later described as 'waifs and strays', who were currently living at Germaine's house. She is a 'generous host to various passers-through, she always has a collection of the wounded,' she later commented in her account of the visit. She also reflected on the abuse Germaine Greer had to suffer from so many people whom she did not know, and who did not know her. 'Small minds, small spirits affronted by the sheer size and magnetism of the woman.'18\n\nGermaine certainly did not see her household as a lonely refuge for the lame and the halt. In 1994, in conversation with writer Duncan Fallowell, she remarked on the similarities between her vision for The Mills and L'abbaye de Th\u00e9l\u00e8me. Her reference was to that part of Rabelais' Gargantua that describes the Abbey as a kind of utopia where the giants, male and female \u2013 all of noble birth, all well-educated with cultivated tastes \u2013 lived together under only one rule: 'Fais ce que voudras.' (Live freely, do what you want.) The inmates of the Abbey could rise from bed when they felt like it, eat and drink when and what they wanted, enjoy their pleasure as they found it. The vision is libertarian, qualified by elitism.\n\nLes gens libres, bien n\u00e9s bien instruits, conversant en compagnie honn\u00eate, on par nature un instinct et aiguillon, qui toujours les pousse \u00e1 de fa\u00e7on, verteuse et fuir le vice; ils nommaient cela honneur.\n\n(People who are free, well born, well instructed and conversant with honest company, have by nature an instinct and motivation which always makes them act in a virtuous manner and shun vice. They will call this honour.)\n\nSo well-educated were the giants that they could read, write, play harmonious instruments, speak five or six languages and write prose and poetry. The men were skilled in riding and jousting, the women, sweet and agreeable, were adept at needlework and other feminine pursuits.\n\n'I don't have a partner. But I have a household . . . at the moment,' Greer told Fallowell.\n\nIt really is the Abbaye de Th\u00e9l\u00e8mes. Music, painting, laughter, gardening, extremely sensual, very Mediterranean. There's Rita. James and Tom \u2013 they're graduate students at Cambridge. Christopher and Shanghai Jim \u2013 they're two cats. Livingstone, the parrot. Cecil, the gardener. Paul, the gardener's boy . . . My ambition is to run a secular monastery of refined pleasures. But I am perfectly happy to be by myself. The great luxury is to be utterly alone.19\n\nAs well as being an accomplished cook and hostess, Germaine Greer was a much sought-after guest: her archive holds a multitude of invitations to private and public gatherings of every kind, most of which she politely refused. Although certainly not a recluse, she tended to avoid larger gatherings or to leave early, especially when she did not know most of the company well. In some of her columns, evidence is to be found of her failure to recognise the effects of her appearance and behaviour on others, and of the misunderstandings that could result: on one occasion, for example, when she turned up to a gathering with 'filthy' nails and leaves in her hair she was surprised and annoyed when she overheard someone saying, 'You'd think she'd make an effort.'\n\n'If only they knew,' she commented enigmatically.20\n\nFor many celebrities, New Year's Eve is a time to see and be seen, but for Germaine it was usually a time of private contemplation. She received some quite spectacular invitations to celebrate the change of the millennium at various events and venues, but she chose not to accept any of them: her plan was to keep to her usual New Year's Eve practice of sorting and ironing her linen in peaceful solitude.21\n\nAs it turned out, however, when it came to the point she changed her mind and decided to give a millennial bonfire party, which was a great success. The next day, the first of the new millennium, she was out driving her bobcat to dig a 25-metre (80-foot) land drain from one of the goose ponds, for watering the roots of the apple trees in the orchard.\n\nAll of Germaine's households reflected her almost religious belief in cooperative living arrangements where groups of like-minded people would share the goods and labour \u2013 a socialist model. She wanted everyone in her house to live comfortably, do their fair share of the work and be kind to each other. But it seems she never came to terms with the fact that, in her houses, the system was more capitalist than socialist. She owned the wealth and the means of production, and she was not about to give them away. Whenever she came to suspect that any of her prot\u00e9g\u00e9s might be leeching off her wealth she would turn on them angrily.\n\nInevitably, complications and conflicts arose. There are many examples. When one friend, whom she had helped in a time of trouble, departed from the house after running up a large telephone bill, leaving a mess and failing to return the house key, she complained about him to a mutual acquaintance, who told him what Germaine was saying about him behind his back. Immediately, he wrote to his former benefactress, protesting his innocence. She replied savagely, accusing him of being 'mentally ill'. She did not want him to pay the \u00a3400 phone bill, she informed him, for this was a small price to pay for being rid of him. 'Use the money to pay for your psychiatrist. He's paid to listen to your raving; we weren't and very boring and self-obsessed it was too.'22\n\nThis friend, like most who became the targets of her anger, retired to lick his wounds and wait her out until she was ready to resume the relationship. Similarly, young Cambridge don Paul McHugh, another good friend, was deeply hurt when she humiliated him in one of her newspaper columns, but he did not want to sever his bonds with her. The son of a New Zealand judge, he never forgot her kindness to his family when she sent magnificent flowers \u2013 orchids, lilies, roses, carnations \u2013 when his sister, Pauline, was killed in a car accident; but when Germaine wrote her scathing piece about him in The Independent of 23 July 1991, he was not going to let her get away with it. 'Your piece in today's Independent,' he wrote to her, 'was cruel, vicious, slanted and unnecessary.'\n\nHowever inept or foolish I may be, I certainly don't think I deserved such sustained public humiliation. The article makes it perfectly plain to most of my colleagues of whom you are speaking\/complaining, and it belittles and degrades me. I just cannot understand how or why you would treat me in that way . . . There was no sting in the tail at the end, no warmth or loving ever surfaced, but a succession of lashing and whipping and scornful abuse. It was wrong, hurtful and harmful. You cannot treat one who is so fond of you in such an ad libitum fashion.23\n\nIt seems the damage Germaine did to this friendship was eventually repaired. Paul and his partner, Andy Hardwick, invited her to their civil partnership ceremony in 2006. (She was unable to attend because she was in Australia at the time.)\n\nSignificantly, most of the people Germaine attacked did not want to lose her friendship. Jim Haynes is an early example; another is Ken Tynan, who refused to allow the quarrel they had at Porto Cervo to fester. The day after their disagreement he wrote to her saying that he had been 'astonished' to hear her roaring away that morning on her moped. When she failed to reply, he wrote again to assure her that he still loved her, 'very much'. She was contrite. 'I wonder sometimes if I'll ever learn. It's like banging my head . . . Sometimes the blinds of ego go up and one can see nothing, especially if one feels embattled from the outset.'24\n\nBut not all conflicts were resolved. Greer's rift with Australian actress Kate Fitzpatrick, for example, never healed: it ended as it had begun, bizarrely. Seven months pregnant by a French architect from whom she was separated, Fitzpatrick was being sheltered by the Australian ambassador in Rome when Germaine, who was more of an acquaintance than a friend, discovered her plight. The thought of rescuing this temporarily defenceless compatriot was irresistible to her, as was the idea that having a baby, a real live baby whom she might almost claim as her own if it was born on her property, might at last be within her grasp. She telephoned the embassy repeatedly until a desperate Fitzpatrick agreed to come to her. The visit started well, although Kate had her reservations.\n\nOn the first night, Germaine cooked a wonderful meal of chicken, vegetables and couscous. It was a very pleasant and welcoming introduction. The only cloud was introduced by her free-range cats, who gave me the mother of all asthma attacks. At one moment she kissed one very near its bum and I remember thinking no woman who kisses a cat on the arse is going to kiss my baby.25\n\nAfter that, nothing worked out. It was winter and the heating in the house seemed to be regulated to save on the bills. Like other guests who were sharing the household at the time, Kate was expected to work to earn her keep. Her hostess and protector decreed gardening in the frozen cabbage patch, very difficult for anyone, but torture for a woman who was seven months pregnant. Most bizarrely of all, Germaine was insisting that the baby be born in her own bedroom at The Mills, rather than in a hospital or its mother's room. Without a car, Kate was trapped, and Greer refused to let her go. It was only with the aid of sympathetic friends that the frantic actress eventually managed to smuggle herself out.26\n\nSome of Germaine's friendships have lasted a lifetime, but most of these are with people she sees only intermittently \u2013 Margaret Fink, who lives in Sydney, is one; another is Ann Polis in Melbourne. Even in England, partly because of her peripatetic lifestyle, her relationships, though warm and loving, do not include the intimate, regular contact that most people expect of a close friendship.\n\nFor nearly twenty years, up to and including Germaine's purchase of The Mills, she enjoyed a volatile friendship with Gay Clifford, her old colleague from the University of Warwick. The relationship was fun-filled, competitive, high octane, a meeting of minds. They holidayed together, raced across the motorways of Europe in cars of doubtful roadworthiness, flirted with drivers and passengers in passing cars, infuriated the local gendarmerie and carabinieri. On one occasion they sped across a frozen landscape in an unheated old car, wearing thick fur coats and pretending they were in a troika. On another, they were pursued down the Autostrade by a man in a late-model Ferrari. He kept weaving in and out of the traffic, first passing the two women, then slowing down so they would have to pass him. At every roadside cafe he gestured, inviting them to lunch. Germaine was all for accepting, but Gay, the driver, pressed on until she had to pull aside for petrol. Seizing his chance, the Ferrari driver screeched up behind them. They all got out of their cars and looked at each other. He was stunned by the unexpectedly tall stature and beauty of these two Amazonian women. They took one look at him and collapsed into helpless laughter, for he was short and squat, pot-bellied and bald.\n\nOne Christmas at Pianelli, Germaine awoke to find that her friend had placed at the foot of her bed a red stocking filled with small presents she had chosen with extraordinary taste and care: six little tortoiseshell buttons, a phial of bergamot oil, a marzipan cat, a necklace of Venetian glass daisies, a nutmeg holder. Germaine wondered then if she understood anyone as well as Gay understood her.\n\nBut the friendship was marred by petty conflicts and misunderstandings. The two continued to share good and bad times, but Germaine's life was so crowded that those times were often rushed, and she hardly had time to notice, as her relationships collapsed around her and hoped-for babies never arrived, that Gay was falling into depression, physical illness and alcoholism. According to Germaine, 'she made herself a mad maenad who terrorised hostesses, devastated dinner parties, mumbled or bawded her way through poetry readings, amazed and appalled her students, and had occasionally to be dragged, unconscious, out of the lavatories at University College.'27\n\nOne evening, about a year before Germaine left London to live in Essex, she invited Gay to a dinner party at her flat at 20 Westbourne Terrace. She was annoyed when Gay failed to appear, putting it down to her growing eccentricity and unreliability. Eventually, the downstairs bell rang, but there was still no sign of Gay. Twenty minutes later, Germaine went down and found her friend wandering around the stairwell, completely disorientated. Later she deeply regretted that she had mistaken the signs of serious illness for drunkenness.\n\nThen, on Christmas Eve 1984, disaster struck when Gay's brain was devastated by a cerebral haemorrhage. Germaine visited her in hospital, lay her head beside her friend's on the pillow and read to her \u2013 mostly the poems Gay had written herself. She was not sure if Gay had any brain function at all, for she could only respond with distressed, incoherent sounds.\n\nAt the time of Gay's collapse, Germaine was frantically busy with radio, television and speaking engagements, her travels, her writing, negotiating the sale of her London properties, buying The Mills and deciding how she would renovate it. Hoping to find a way of helping Gay's parents, Freddie and Pam, to look after Gay, she hit upon a plan to build a special accommodation unit at The Mills for her, and to become responsible for her care. 'We could make you up a set of study-bedroom and own bathroom,' she wrote to Gay. 'Please understand that I'm not making this offer out of pity because I think Pam and Freddie can't cope . . . I want my big house to be useful and alive.'28 And in another letter, written on 16 March 1986, 'Please let me look after you in my impersonal way for a space; Freddie and Pam need a rest from you as much as you need a rest from them. And dammit, I need to feel useful from time to time . . . My motives are not that I wish to feel myself a great and grand-hearted prima donna at your expense. I simply want the great relief of having you to talk to . . .'29\n\nThis letter suggests great generosity but also a lack of empathy on Germaine's part. She had not yet understood that Gay was now a different person, much diminished in her ability, who could not be cajoled, as in the old days, into accepting her largesse. Reality asserted itself, however, when she took Gay to Pianelli for a four-week holiday in July 1986. When they came back to London she had to tell Pam and Freddie that her proposal to provide sheltered accommodation for Gay at The Mills was not going to work, for Gay needed far more help than she would be able to give her. 'After living with Gay for a month,' she wrote, 'during most of which time I was her sole companion and nurse, I have unwillingly come to the conclusion that she is a very sick woman indeed. From some points of view, taking her to Pianelli was simply silly.'30\n\nPam and Freddie Clifford's letters to Germaine at this time are full of love and gratitude. With the wisdom of an older generation, Pam, especially, was able to recognise in Germaine the qualities of steadfastness and loyalty added to intellect and a sense of fun that had charmed so many of her friends and acquaintances, from the nuns at Star of the Sea to Federico Fellini.\n\nIn the years that followed, Germaine grew ever closer to Pam and Freddie, who had taken their daughter home to their house in London and, later, acting on Germaine's suggestion, to a house they had bought in Gloucestershire. Over time, with the best treatment and medication, Gay regained the ability to speak, but she had little sense of time and space, very little short-term memory, and was dependent on her loving carers for most of her physical needs.\n\nBefore Gay died, Germaine initiated a project that gave her parents great solace. She decided, with their help and involvement, to collect and publish Gay's poems. 'I know this book cannot be sold on the poetry alone,' she told a representative of the publisher, Hamish Hamilton. 'It is important to think of it as a hybrid, the story of a friendship, an account of poetry and fragments of an elegant mind that has been smashed.' The book, titled Poems by Gay Clifford, was published in 1990. The long introduction, written by Germaine, gives a love-filled yet honest account of their friendship.31\n\nGermaine also gave the address at the thanksgiving service for the life of Gay Clifford, which was held at Holy Trinity Church, Minchinhampton, on 6 August 1998. Speaking without notes, she provided insight not only into the friendship, but also into her own capacity to sustain relationships. 'Gay Clifford was my friend,' she began. 'To be a writer's friend is a difficult thing. As a friend I am disloyal, distracted, forgetful, busy. I regard myself, really, as a rather hopeless sort of friend.'32\n\nSome who considered themselves to be Germaine's friends were inclined to agree with her. All too often, partly because of her frenetic way of life and partly for other reasons to do with her conflicted personality, relationships that may have become close, even intimate, did not develop. Her association with one fellow Australian, publisher and founder of Virago Modern Classics Carmen Callil, is a case in point.33\n\nCallil (who was made a Dame of the British Empire in 2017) and Germaine Greer had much in common. Carmen was born in Melbourne on what she described as a Black Friday \u2013 because it was one of the coldest days on record \u2013 in July 1938. Germaine was born in the same city three weeks after the famous Black Friday, 13 January 1939, then the hottest day on record. They grew up living a few kilometres apart on Melbourne's bayside, Carmen in the wealthy suburb of Brighton, Germaine in nearby Elwood and Sandringham. Both were educated in Melbourne convents, Germaine at Star of the Sea, Carmen at Loreto Mandeville Hall. Both attended the University of Melbourne in the late 1950s.\n\nOver the years, some reports in the media created a false impression that the two Australians were close friends who had been at school together in Australia. They had known each other at Melbourne University, but their association did not develop until they found themselves mixing in the same literary circles in 1960s London and having to cope with what Carmen later described as the 'occasional tedium of British superciliousness' towards Australians. The two met frequently when Callil was heavily involved in the publicity for the publication of The Female Eunuch in Britain. Sonny Mehta was a mutual friend.\n\nLater, Carmen recalled that, despite the similarities in their respective backgrounds, Germaine always seemed quite indifferent to her. 'She was a star and I was not and I always found her entirely uninterested in me,' she recalled in 2017. 'Years and years later, I realised this was not anything in particular but part of her general personality i.e. the price she paid for her genius and fame was \u2013 perhaps \u2013 lack of great interest in the minutiae of other peoples' lives or the sort of things that make for close friendships. I could be wrong.'34\n\nIn her write-up of a conversation between herself and Carmen Callil published in Vogue magazine, Germaine pointed out the media's mistake in assuming that she and Carmen were close friends. 'We do not know each other very well,' she wrote. 'Both of us are feminist to the marrow, and both of us have a taut and difficult relationship with other feminists who underestimate the struggle we have had and overestimate the degree of acceptance we have had from the male establishment. We have come to expect less loyalty and less consideration from our sisters than from any other quarter.'\n\nThe discussion moved on to friendship. In the past, said Carmen, she had made some efforts to become closer to Germaine. One Christmas she had even come to see her, but Germaine had no time to talk to her. Did Germaine have any close friends? Carmen described her relationship with several women whom she spoke to on the telephone at least three times a week and saw most weekends. Germaine had fallen silent, but Carmen persevered. Did Germaine have any friends like that? 'No, I don't,' she responded.\n\nCarmen speculated that this may be because Germaine was travelling all the time \u2013 or maybe because she was 'daunting'. Germaine sidestepped the issue, shutting off further discussion of this thorny question. 'She told me she could not put me on her friends' list and phone me three times a week, because I was a genius. I'm no more of a genius than Carmen Callil is a bitch. By such stereotypes are women still pitted against women.'35\n\nGermaine Greer may well have struggled with issues involving intimacy and close friendship, but her concern for people in need seemed to increase as the years went on. In 1994, she placed an offer in The Big Issue for homeless people to write to her, care of the magazine, and tell her why they might like to live with her. Other newspapers picked up the story and, predictably, her generous but naive request elicited responses from numerous fake homeless people, mainly journalists in search of good copy. She welcomed the first man who arrived on her doorstep with such friendliness and courtesy that he left, ashamed and embarrassed. The second was a curly headed boy on crutches. He carried a bedroll that was strangely clean, and offered to cook and work in the garden. Germaine took his (expensive) jeans to wash while he had a bath, and then she cooked for him. At 11 pm another imposter arrived. His mouth reminded her of a pig's anus, so she got rid of him. The next day, the phone rang constantly with more pleas from the 'homeless'. By now the press were hovering, planes were circling over her house, and photographers managed to capture images of the man with the challenged mouth as he walked away from her door disconsolately. The boy on crutches remained safely inside until Shelley, Germaine's assistant, who agreed with her employer that he was probably brain-damaged, took him to the supermarket to buy some food and underwear. When they returned, Germaine tried to teach him how to bake bread.\n\nThat night he left quietly after going through her bathroom cupboard and listing the contents, which he subsequently revealed in the three-page article he wrote for the Mail on Sunday. He left \u00a330 and a note of thanks, signed with his true name, Martin Hennessey.\n\n'He was a slug who trailed his slime across my doormat,' wrote Greer in her regular Guardian column, declaring her intention to sue Hennessey and the Daily Mail. The Guardian, however, was having a field day with the story. 'Having got on the wrong side of Germaine Greer in her student days,' wrote Simon Hoggart in that newspaper on 8 February 1994, 'I know she is a persistent and effective hater. Mr Hennessey's next few decades are going to be disagreeable.'36\n\nGermaine demanded a retraction and threatened to sue. In the same week, she faxed Guardian journalist Joanna Coles, who had called her 'promiscuous', informing her that this statement was actionable.37\n\nShe may or may not have been a good hater, as Simon Hoggart claimed, but she could certainly be lethal in response to perceived insults. In 2000, the disc jockey John Peel disclosed in a BBC television interview that he had been seduced by Germaine Greer in the 1960s. Sensing a good story, editor of the Daily Telegraph Richard Preston asked Germaine to respond. He was not disappointed. She regarded John Peel as a friend, she wrote in her next column, and did not want to 'dish the dirt on him', but since he had not extended the same courtesy to her . . .\n\nSo unremarkable was the alleged sexual encounter, she continued, that she had no memory of it. She could remember, however, accompanying him to a concert at the Albert Hall, wearing shoes with four-inch heels and 'swishing' along in gunmetal blue silk trousers. It was a glorious summer day and she was enjoying herself until, out of the blue, Peel informed her that he had gonorrhoea. She suffered through the rest of the concert knowing that she would have to run the gauntlet of the 'Clap Clinic' the next morning and make some embarrassing phone calls to people she had recently had sex with.\n\nIf any reader doubted her story, she said in conclusion, she was prepared to offer as evidence her blue card from the clinic with its negative results, and a photograph of herself and Peel sitting on the stage of the Albert Hall on the day of the concert.38\n\nShe may well have wanted to deal similarly with some of those disturbed people whose letters she kept in a special drawer of a filing cabinet, labelled 'Nutters', but they were too many, and most of them chose to be anonymous. Some of these letters were very nasty indeed. Religious nutters sent her copies of biblical texts, accusing her, often in the most vile terms, of corrupting others by being corrupt herself. One Muslim man wanted to take her as his second wife. They could be married at the Egyptian Embassy in Canberra. 'I will take you by force! I want a son, remember, but a daughter would be nice too. We will have a house by Christmas!'39\n\nSome threatening letters were of the chain variety, attempting to pass on the evil. Many were obscene and venomous. 'Shut your mouth fucken bitch or I'll slam you in your fucken mouth and give you equal rites [sic]' being one example among many. Some were self-righteously censorious, but still hurtful: 'This surely is woman's role to make a haven for her family, and in doing so to bring the greatest happiness it is possible to have . . . I am afraid you will never know this.' Some letters were endearingly eccentric. One anonymous man who signed himself 'Old Pink Male Person', for example, told her he sincerely believed she should be elected Pope.40\n\nA file in Unit 79 of the General Correspondence section of the Greer archive contains thirteen letters that, in accordance with Germaine's directions to her assistant, have never been opened. These letters, and many others that were opened, were from well-known Australian actor, theatre director and writer Peter O'Shaughnessy, who, for more than thirty years, insisted on bombarding Germaine Greer with unwanted demands for her friendship and recognition of his talents.\n\nO'Shaughnessy, nearly twenty years older than Germaine, had been a leader in the Melbourne Drift; he was a well-known identity at the Swanston Family Hotel in the 1950s and, later, the Royal George in Sydney. A mentor of Barry Humphries and acquaintance of Push stars including Margaret Fink, he had, over the years, followed Germaine Greer's career with an interest that bordered on obsession. His letters to her go back at least as far as 1982. At first, she tried to acknowledge them politely but made it clear she was not interested in resuming a by-now defunct relationship. He persevered. In July 1999, he wrote seeking an invitation for himself and his daughter and grandson to spend a weekend with her at The Mills so that he could share with her his ideas on Shakespeare. Exasperated, Germaine made her position clear. Through her assistant, she replied: 'Professor Greer desires me to inform you she has no desire to entertain you and your family at her house or to discuss Shakespeare with you.'\n\nBy 2011, Greer felt herself to be increasingly under siege as the letters kept coming. O'Shaughnessy had even started to pester Margaret Fink, recalling their old association and demanding that she use her influence with Germaine to get her to talk to him. Matters came to a head in 2013, when the now-octogenarian O'Shaughnessy embraced digital technology to denigrate Greer on his website and threaten to publish personal information about her, including her address at The Mills, on Facebook and Twitter. Distressed, Germaine considered legal options, including an injunction, but she knew that any such efforts to silence him would be nerve-racking and expensive. Tension mounted until the issue was resolved by his death, at age 89, in July 2013.41\n\nThe real worry was that written threats from all sorts of disturbed people would be followed by action. Typical of the generous side of Germaine's nature was that she worried about the welfare of her mentally ill correspondents. When she received a letter from an anonymous young person who threatened to show up in Cambridge during May Week, dressed as Johnny Rotten, and do 'one last pogo' to the strains of 'God Save the Queen' before setting fire to herself and jumping into the River Cam, she forwarded it to the Cambridge Constabulary. 'You will understand that I could hardly live with myself after getting such a letter if I did open my local newspaper and found that a young person had died in this way, and I had done nothing to prevent it,' she wrote in a covering letter. The police replied that they were liaising with the university authorities; the writer had been identified and 'those responsible for this young lady have been alerted to her problems'.42\n\nThe outcome of some correspondence with another young girl was much less satisfactory. On 23 April 2000, guests who arrived to take Greer out to dinner discovered that she had been taken virtual hostage in her home by a besotted, apparently deranged nineteen-year-old student from Bath University, who kept calling her 'Mummy' and clinging to her legs. More of the story unfolded during the subsequent court case, in which the girl was acquitted of charges of causing actual bodily harm and imprisonment, but convicted of harassment. This young woman had been exchanging letters with Greer for some time, regarding her as 'a spiritual mother figure'. Realising that the girl's letters were becoming increasingly frequent and disjointed, Germaine asked her to stop writing, but the letters kept coming. On 21 April, the student arrived at The Mills, saying that she was camping out in a nearby field. Germaine took pity on her and allowed her to sleep for one night in a spare room. The next day she drove her to the closest railway station, but at about midnight the young woman was back at the house, frantically ringing the doorbell. Greer called the police and the girl was carried off by two officers, only to return the next day, which was when the assault occurred. The two women struggled violently for two hours; furniture was broken and a telephone was ripped from the wall before Greer's dinner companions arrived and the 'siege' ended.\n\nThe following day, a cool Professor Greer held an impromptu press conference outside her home. 'I am not angry,' she told the assembled journalists, 'I am not upset. I am not hurt. I am fine. I haven't lost my sense of humour. I am not the victim here.'\n\nIn court, with her parents in the public gallery, the young woman said: 'I knew it was wrong but I did it. I went to hug her and there was a struggle. I was continually confused by her. I never knew whether she wanted to see me or not. I saw her as a motherly kind of figure, but it was not infatuation.'43\n\nSix years later, Germaine was enraged when she discovered that an Australian playwright, Joanna Murray-Smith, had written a play that was obviously based on this incident, and that the main protagonist, played by Eileen Atkins, was a caricature of herself. The Female of the Species, a satire about second-wave feminism, tells the story of Margot Mason, celebrity feminist and author of bestselling tracts 'The Cerebral Vagina', 'Madame Ovary', 'Love and Other Four-Letter Words' and 'The Complete Insignificance of Male Sexuality', who lives more or less alone on a rural estate in the English countryside. As the play opens, Margot, who is suffering from writer's block, is ending an abusive telephone conversation with her publisher when the French doors to her study open to admit Molly, a former student of hers, who threatens her with a gun and handcuffs her to her desk. Molly is obsessed by the belief that reading The Cerebral Vagina caused her mother to give her away as a baby before she killed herself. Following the feminist credo, she, Molly, had herself sterilised to preserve her creativity, but felt destroyed when her teacher, Margot, told her she had no talent.\n\nThe play proceeds to its hilarious conclusion when Margot's daughter, Tess, Tess's caring but dull stockbroker husband, the high-voiced publisher and even a macho taxidriver turn up to join in the argument, all commenting on Margot's lewd books, her inconsistent views and her failings as a mother and a woman. Tess agrees that her mother deserves to be shot.\n\nIn July 2008, Murray-Smith was less than convincing when she claimed that Margot Mason was not a character portrait of Greer. ('It would take a braver woman than me to write about Greer directly.') Greer herself was not deceived. 'She holds feminism in contempt,' she told Telegraph journalist Laura Clout, calling the play 'threadbare' though she claimed not to have read it. 'What are they doing putting this play on in the West End?' she queried regally before taking aim, with devastating precision, at twin targets Murray-Smith and a country she had reason to dislike: 'Auckland in New Zealand, maybe . . .'44\n\nIn more serious vein, Greer later drew attention to a problem faced by all celebrities \u2013 the conflation of their public image with their personal lives. The invasion of her home by the young student happened only three years after Princess Diana's death had opened the eyes of a shocked public to the damage that could be done to vulnerable people \u2013 celebrity status notwithstanding \u2013 by the media's greedy attempts to satisfy the prurient appetites of their mass audience. In a piece for the BBC's Radio 4, Greer commented:\n\nMurray-Smith . . . has not yet realised that [Margot] is a real person who lives in England. [The young girl] was then a 19-year-old student (not one of mine) who was suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . . . She is still probably under an injunction to keep 15 miles away from me but she inveigled the magistrate into giving her permission to visit the Cambridge University Library where there is so little in the way of surveillance or security that gentlemen so inclined can bugger each other ad libitum in the privacy of the stacks.\n\nEileen Atkins will do a very good impersonation of me, and I'll bet no one has warned her that this could place her in immediate physical danger. How the perpetrator will react to an impersonation of herself is incalculable. In the play she has a gun. If she turns up with a gun again, I've had it.45\n\nMurray-Smith's attempt to inquire into the private life of the public institution that was Germaine Greer caused her, like David Plante and others who attempted the same feat, to be attacked and vilified by her subject. Of these intrepid people, none is more significant than Christine Wallace, who, in the 1990s, wrote the first (and, to date, only) biography of Germaine Greer, titled Untamed Shrew.\n\nWallace is a respected Australian journalist, writer and academic. At the time of writing Untamed Shrew she was a member of the Canberra Press Gallery writing for the Australian Financial Review. She had previously written a biography of the then Liberal Party Opposition Leader John Hewson, who lost the so-called 'unlosable' 1993 federal election to Labor's Paul Keating. As well as underlining the extent and roots of Hewson's neoliberal policy agenda, Wallace's biography included previously undisclosed details of his tax minimisation practices, taking some paint off a leader who had been considered 'above' politics. Swimming against the tide of press gallery opinion, she was one of only three journalists to correctly predict a Keating win.\n\nStill in her thirties when she wrote her biography of Greer, Wallace was a strong feminist of the younger generation that profited from the gains of the second wave but was beginning to question some of its assumptions. One aim of the biography was to investigate 'the profound disjuncture' in the way Greer's books were received by the majority of baby boomers versus the committed feminists among them. Wallace noted that more knowledgeable feminists, especially senior figures in the American women's liberation movement, had serious reservations about aspects of Greer's approach. Why were 'Germaine' and 'The Female Eunuch' still so often, in the 1990s, the first words from the mouths of 'ordinary' women in Australia, Britain and even the United States when one raised feminism, at the same time as her books were virtually invisible on the reading lists of the burgeoning Women's Studies courses at universities? Wallace set out to solve that conundrum and puzzle out how and where Greer fitted into the feminist pantheon.\n\nWallace could see the value of following an approach that combined biography with critical review, and believed it was important to capture the convictions and achievements of significant second-wave feminists like Greer before they were lost in memory or obscured by later work. 'Rediscovering the value, as well as dismissing the dross in their pioneering contribution is a valuable endeavour for a movement prone to historical amnesia,' she wrote in her foreword to Untamed Shrew.\n\nBefore she started work on the biography, Wallace wrote to Greer outlining the project and requesting help, beginning with an interview. Greer's response was perfunctory and rude: she accused all biographers of being parasites and demanded Wallace wait till she, Greer, was dead before writing about her. Wallace replied, engaging with the substance of Greer's arguments. Surely it was better, especially in the case of someone who had led as full a life as Germaine, to be able to check and correct stories, eliminating errors and falsehoods, while Greer was alive? Had not Greer herself written extensively about living subjects without compunction, including close family members, so wasn't there a consistency problem inherent in the rebuff?, she continued. Greer wrote back via her agent, telling Wallace to 'publish and be damned'. Little did Wallace know that respected biographer Hazel Rowley had only just prior to this exchange received the same bruising treatment from Greer. So shaken was Rowley she decided to work only on dead subjects in the future, and so big an imprint did the exchange make that it would be mentioned in recollections at Rowley's memorial service.\n\nUndeterred, however, Wallace went ahead. She explained to those she approached that her biography was not authorised but that authorised biographies in any case often lacked credibility, tending to the hagiographical. Her own approach, she said, would be independent, sympathetic and critically engaged. She began in Melbourne, talking first with Greer's mother, well before Greer issued her threat to 'kneecap' Wallace should she do so. Then Wallace sought out friends and teachers of Greer's from Star of the Sea convent school and Melbourne University, then friends in Sydney from Sydney University and the Push. Wallace then went to the United States, where she interviewed titans of second-wave feminism including Kate Millett, Gloria Steinem and Jill Johnston about Greer, before going on to England.\n\n'There was an inverse relationship between proximity to Germaine and a willingness to talk,' Wallace said.\n\nEveryone in Australia, where people are not easily intimidated, and likewise the US, happily contributed, but in England there was a reluctance which deepened the closer one got to Cambridge near which Greer lived. People seemed genuinely fearful of Greer's rage. As one person who declined an interview said, \"We have to live with her.\"46\n\nWallace did not give up hope that Greer might ultimately be persuaded to understand how well motivated the biography was and, despite the brutal opening rebuffs, asked Greer twice more for interviews: once before leaving the United States to come to England, the other while she was in Cambridge, to no avail.\n\nGreer's column in The Guardian on 31 October 1994 was influential in shutting down sources in England against Wallace. Those who wrote about the lives of living people, she opined, were akin to malign, flesh-eating bacteria that fed off living organisms and caused them 'toxic shock, paralysis and death'. Other, probably libellous, epithets for Wallace included 'dung beetle', 'amoeba' and 'brain-dead hack.' She expected that her friends would refuse to speak with Wallace. 'Nobody actually wants to sit down and have an hour's conversation with a tapeworm.' Her friends could make their own decisions, but they would no longer be her friends if they chose poorly. Even more was she appalled that Wallace had had the effrontery to request a meeting with herself, in Cambridge. 'I'd no more want to clap eyes on this individual than I want to study a slide of my intestinal flora.' Then she switched from bullying attack to pathetic victim mode: after she made the mistake of reading former husband Paul du Feu's book about her, she wrote, she was 'so crippled with self-doubt that I could hardly manage the simplest intellectual task. Writing was entirely beyond me.'\n\nGreer also wrote to her solicitor in an (unsuccessful) attempt to have the book blocked or, at least, modified. She enclosed a copy of a letter of protest she had written to the managing editor of Pan Macmillan, Wallace's publisher. Once again, she claimed that the chief cause of her opposition was a desire to protect her family. She was concerned about her mother, 'who is nowadays very disinhibited and can talk with great violence', and her uncle, who was dying of prostate cancer. 'My own privacy is a lost cause,' she said (truthfully, but conveniently overlooking the fact that she herself had been the chief source of information about herself and her mother). 'Is there anything I can do,' she continued, 'to limit the damage to my unfortunate family? Wallace is not the first, and I fear she is far from the last to hit upon the bright idea of ripping me off.'47\n\nMembers of the Canberra Press Gallery are not known for their timidity or oversensitivity to criticism. Wallace was tough, but she was deeply wounded by this public attack on her professional integrity. Her response to Greer, published in The Guardian of Wednesday 2 November 1994, was elegant and to the point. 'Germaine Greer's rich organic metaphors made interesting reading. However, like compost, her analysis contained much heat but no light.'48\n\nWhen she had tried to persuade Greer of the obvious benefit of writing about living people rather than dead ones, Wallace continued, Greer had failed to respond. Nor had she cared to comment on the fact that she herself had written freely, often abusively, about living figures ranging from her own mother to Mother Teresa. 'The contradiction glares,' said Wallace, with obvious justification. When Jill Neville, long-time expatriate Australian writer in London and Richard Neville's sister, went ahead with a planned interview despite Greer's Guardian tirade, Wallace was touched that not everybody had run scared. As they sat together in The Three Greyhounds pub in Soho, Neville comforted her that writing books was never easy in the best of circumstances, and that these circumstances were particularly difficult.\n\nGreer never relented. While preparing the book for publication, Wallace wrote another polite letter to her subject requesting permission to reproduce a photo of her by Diane Arbus. Greer simply annotated the letter 'Ignore'.\n\nMost people assumed at the time that Greer's opposition to Wallace's biography was based on privacy concerns, given her subject's flamboyant lifestyle. But, as Wallace pointed out, no one could write anything about Germaine's life that Germaine had not already copiously written about herself. In the end she concluded Greer's wrath was fuelled by intellectual insecurity: that she worried that her oeuvre did not hang together well on close inspection and would not stand up to scrutiny. Wallace did indeed find that body of work contained twists and turns that Greer failed to reconcile as she moved from one theme to another, and sometimes outright contradictions. However, she also concluded that this did not undercut Greer's significance in the second wave as a great international populariser of feminist revolt, especially among 'ordinary' women. Greer was a maverick feminist, she wrote, whose refusal to surrender her sovereignty as a woman inspired others to assert their own.\n\nNevertheless, Germaine continued to rail against and threaten the reception of a book that intelligently recorded and generously judged her achievements while sympathetically handling her human frailties and flaws. Wallace believes that Germaine's attacks on Untamed Shrew led to fewer people reading the book than otherwise would have \u2013 as it turned out, a Greer 'own goal'.49\n\nGermaine Greer was in her mid-forties when Sex and Destiny was published in January 1984. Soon to become moderately happy and settled at The Mills, she had friends, admirers, detractors and enemies aplenty, but there were no enduring romantic partners, no children \u2013 just herself, with her brilliant, restless mind, her frequent headaches and other health problems, her complex, difficult personality, her garden and her animals. Maybe now was the time to confront the personal demons, rooted in her childhood, that she had hitherto been unable to exorcise.\n\nShe had seen relatively little of her family in the years since she left Australia for England in 1964. Her mother was still working on her tan and figure on the beach at Mentone, but, perhaps inspired by Germaine's success, she had also studied to pass her matriculation. Like so many women who had not been able to go to university in their youth, Peggy took advantage of one of the government programs that followed the feminist revolution to study for an Arts degree, majoring in literature and Italian.\n\nIn spite of her claim to be an advocate for women's education, Germaine was scathing about her mother's efforts: 'She's now taking some ludicrous academic course,' she told Sydney Morning Herald journalist Tina Brown. 'I do disapprove of the taxpayers' money going on educational programs invented to keep old women off the streets.'50\n\nWhen Germaine travelled to Australia in 1971\u201372 to promote The Female Eunuch, Peggy Greer was not at home to greet her daughter, for she had flown off on an extended European trip to escape \u2013 so she said \u2013 all the commotion of journalists beating at her door. Germaine spent only a few days in Melbourne, ostensibly with 'family', in December, before she flew on to Sydney for the 'business' part of her promotional tour. It seems that she did not see her father at that time either, for she said later that they met again for the first time in 1981, seventeen years after she left Australia for England.\n\nThis meeting, which she describes in her most personal book, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, must have been extraordinarily upsetting for both father and daughter. They had lunch in a popular Melbourne restaurant \u2013 two good-looking, stylishly dressed people. Reg was his most charming self \u2013 'suave' and 'droll'. Their conversation was light, peppered with wit and ironic humour, for they were both good at that sort of thing; but a mass of unspeakably painful memories and regrets welled up through the banter, threatening to overwhelm them.51\n\nA couple of days after the lunch Germaine telephoned her father. Maintaining his facade of jovial man about town, he tried to make a joke of what had happened to him after he left the restaurant. He had been walking across Princes Bridge, he told her, to where he had parked his car, when he had felt violently sick and soiled himself in the pants of his beautiful cream silk suit.\n\nGermaine told her father that she would like to see him again, but Reg politely refused her request. Germaine realised, not for the first time, that beneath all the bonhomie, Reg Greer was a severely damaged man. She was a source of stress to him and he could not again allow her to puncture his fragile defences.\n\nIn 1984, Jane Greer, now Jane Burke, telephoned her sister in England to tell her that their father wanted to see her. After hurriedly getting her affairs in order, Germaine set off for Melbourne, where she found her father living in distressing circumstances.\n\n. . . a hostel, a shabby weatherboard house where derelicts of one sort or another could be fed and housed two or three to a room in return for their pension cheques, out of which the management would take its profit.52\n\nWhen the two sisters arrived at the house, they were met by the proprietor, a grubby individual wearing a singlet and shorts, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He showed them into a room where an assortment of broken, ill-cared for old men sat in front of a booming television without watching it. 'They were all too busy cackling, raving, mouthing obscenities, scratching themselves or cursing. Over all hung a miasma of frying fat and the scent of tinned baked beans.' In a chair at the back of the room sat Reg Greer.\n\nJane fled out into the garden, weeping, as Germaine approached her father. Courteous as ever, he rose to greet her and take her arm. They went to his room, which was bare of all possessions. It seemed to Germaine that he had nothing and was nothing.\n\nTrue to form, she blamed her mother for turning Reg out of his own home and committing him to this awful place, an accusation Peg later denied. Knowing that their father had certain rights and privileges as 'a returned man', Jane and Germaine went straight to the Returned Services League (RSL). Characteristically for them both, they went to the man who was at the top of the organisation, Bruce Ruxton, the controversial, iron-willed president of the Victorian branch. Ruxton was as stubborn and self-opinionated as Germaine. Unlike her, he was an arch-conservative, but he had a sharp sense of humour to which she immediately responded. He was notorious for his loud mouth and his views on every topic, from feminism to imperialism, were at the opposite ends of the spectrum to Germaine's. Yet the two formed an immediate bond which would grow into a lasting, if unlikely, friendship. Their correspondence is now held in the Greer archive: like a proud uncle, Ruxton would regularly cut out articles about Germaine from Australian newspapers, affix them to a sheet of paper, and send them to her.\n\nReg had never been an active RSL member, although he had worn the badge to prove his wartime credentials. He did not go to reunions or march on Anzac Day, but with Ruxton's powerful support, his military records were soon located and his medical diagnosis, 'Anxiety Neurosis', discovered. 'We've got more old soldiers suffer from anxiety neurosis than heart disease,' said Ruxton. 'There's no need to distress the old man anymore.' A place was found for him at an RSL retirement home and Germaine returned to England. She did not see her father again, for he died in April 1984, about three months after her final visit to him.\n\nReg's death left Germaine utterly conflicted. Here was the man whom she had tried so hard to please throughout her childhood, but who had constantly pushed her away, physically and emotionally, the non-father who took no interest in her achievements, who was unfailingly polite, often amusing, but never truly present in her life. Even in death he had rejected her. 'The greatest grief of my whole life,' she told writer Duncan Fallowell, as he was interviewing her in 'the velvety luxury of the Montcalm Hotel in London's West End' (she drank champagne throughout), 'was realising it was too late . . .' Unlike her mother, sister and brother, she was not even mentioned in her father's will.53\n\nShe could see herself in Reg Greer, his long face and limbs, his hands, his ability to charm, his skill as a performer, his nose for an advertising or promotional opportunity. In getting to know him, might she finally come to understand herself?\n\nBut how would this be possible after death, when so much about his life remained a mystery? She knew he had been somehow connected with army intelligence and the top-secret Enigma project. She knew that after his service in Malta he had been sent to Deolali in India, where there was a psychiatric institution for war-damaged soldiers. Had her father perhaps been treated there with electroconvulsive therapy to erase all memory of the secrets he must never be permitted to divulge? Had the army turned him into a zombie; a silent, manageable zombie who was not so much unwilling as incapable of embracing his little child when he came back from the war?\n\nSuch were Germaine's thoughts when she returned to England after her father's funeral. As usual, she shared them with friends in literary circles, including publishers. They soon realised that there was a story here, and that this story, if told by Germaine herself, would have high commercial potential. She needed no convincing, and after some wheeling and dealing managed by herself and her agent, she agreed to accept the very large sum of \u00a3110,000 from the publisher Hamish Hamilton as an advance on a chronicle which would describe her search for her father across four continents.\n\n'Hamish Hamilton have paid me a lot of money to write a book about [Reg],' Germaine told her mother, in answer to Peggy's question as to why she was doing this. She felt she could not begin to explain the rest of the truth about her motives, and she thought her mother would find the money incentive easy to understand. 'Gee, I'm glad I don't have to do that to earn a crust,' replied Peg.54\n\nGermaine started to write this, her most personal book, which she called Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, at Pianelli in the European winter of 1986, nearly two years after her father's death. In her desk, she found the old notebook in which she had begun to plan The Female Eunuch. She opened it and commenced: 'Here we go, Daddy, in at the deep end. . . .' Two days later, she drove away from her cottage, alone, down the hill, to begin her latest journey to the other side of the world. Her little elderly cat followed her out to the gate and watched her leave. She did not know that she would never see him again.\n\nDaddy, We Hardly Knew You tells of Germaine Greer's attempts to discover the truth about her father, but it also reveals how she began to find out the truth about herself. In the third chapter she describes how, on the first leg of her journey of discovery, she was already made to feel alienated from her homeland. On her arrival in Melbourne, not able to understand the Greek Australian accent of the taxidriver who drove her from the airport, she insulted him by trying to communicate with him in Greek. 'Did I think he couldn't understand English or something? Impossible to understand that it was I who couldn't understand Australian.' Then came her experience at a Melbourne racetrack when she attempted to take a bottle of champagne out onto the lawn, only to be told, when she protested that this was acceptable in Europe, to 'go back to where she came from'. She was used to hearing this in Europe, she commented, but it felt strange to be ordered out of her own country. Could it be that she had no country of her own?\n\nThe book goes on to tell of the long search for her father that took Germaine from Tasmania, where she believed he had lived as a child, to outback Australia, where he said he had gone jackerooing, to South Africa, where he claimed to have been born, to India and Malta, where he served in the war. She spent hours and hours fighting the petty intransigence of clerks in libraries and public records offices; she sent letters off to a multitude of people whom she thought might know something about an Eric Reginald Greer; she appealed to listeners and viewers on the radio and on TV; she trawled the newspapers of countries from five continents. She found hundreds of Greers and even, in Ireland, a Greerstown. She became a Greer expert. Various Greers wrote to thank her for helping them add information to their family trees, but she found no evidence that her father had ever been a member of any Greer family. He was not a Greer, and therefore, neither was she.\n\nWhat she finally managed to find out about her father \u2013 the truth \u2013 was this.\n\nHis whole life was built on a series of lies and a spiv-like bravado that came easily to him, especially as a young man. When he attended the military recruitment office in Collins Street in 1941 to volunteer for officer training under the Empire Air Training Scheme he lied in almost every detail of the information he provided. He was not born in South Africa; his parents were not English; the father he described as 'Robert Greer' never existed; he completed no public examinations at the high school he attended for only two months in Launceston; he played little or no organised sport; he was never an officer cadet, never a journalist and, at that time, had never been manager of a newspaper office or department.\n\nReg Greer probably never knew his legal family name. It was not Greer. It was not even Greeney, the name Germaine eventually discovered on his school register. It was King, and the story of his birth and subsequent adoption is tragic, though not untypical of the period.\n\nHis biological mother, Germaine's grandmother, was Rhoda Elizabeth King, the daughter of a poor family of convict stock, who worked on the estate of a prosperous landowner near Deloraine, Tasmania. In her teens, Rhoda went into service in Ulverstone, a small town some one hundred kilometres from the larger city of Launceston. At Christmastime 1903, she became pregnant, left her job, and fled to Launceston. Her child, Germaine's father, was born in a small house in Middle Street, Launceston, on 1 September 1904. Unable to keep her baby, Rhoda gave him into the care of Emma Greeney, a married woman who had recently lost a child of her own. The name entered on the birth certificate was Robert Hamilton King. He had been given his mother's surname in accordance with the custom of the time for 'illegitimate' children. The space for the father's name was left blank. Germaine suspected that it was probably 'Hamilton', since this name did not appear on any records for the King family.\n\nOn 9 November 1904, Emma Greeney took 'her' five-week-old baby to St John's Church in Launceston to be christened Robert Henry Eric Ernest. A father's name which looked something like 'Hambett' was entered on the baptismal certificate, but it was scrawled and hard to decipher. Germaine suspected that the curate who made the entry was protecting someone, for there was a Richard Robert Ernest Hamilton who was living in Ulverstone at that time as one of the town's most upright and respectable citizens. He was born at Colenso, north-west of Ladysmith, near Durban, South Africa, in 1865, and educated in England. In 1895, he was married to a Tasmanian girl by a Reverend Robert Beresford, the same Reverend Beresford who was vicar of St John's Launceston when little Robert Hamilton King was christened there in 1904. Richard Hamilton and his wife had three daughters who were born in 1897, 1902 and 1908 respectively. Germaine had no doubt that this man was her biological grandfather.\n\nHamilton had prospered as a businessman, commission agent, and representative of the Holyman family's White Star Line of steamers. He was a secretary of the Ulverstone City Council and of the Leven Harbour Trust. There could be no possibility, Germaine commented sardonically, that such a man would seduce a young servant girl and turn her out. 'Respectable men do not seduce the help when their wives are pregnant or busy with young babies.' And a 'bad ignorant girl' like Rhoda King would not compromise Mr Hamilton's reputation by declaring him to be the father of her child. All of what Germaine had discovered about this man was 'irrelevant'.\n\nIt is also irrelevant that he was tall, narrow-chested, had a moustache, a long face, a narrow nose, deep-set eyes, very fair skin and rode a bicycle around Ulverstone.55\n\nRhoda King never saw her firstborn son again. Eventually she married and had ten children. She died in 1968.\n\nAs Germaine discovered, Reg Greer had covered his tracks well. It was only because of her professional skills as a researcher and writer, her access to resources, including the media, and the financial support provided by Hamish Hamilton's generous advance that Reg Greer's cover was, eventually, blown. Her father had left just enough truth among his lies to enable her to discover him as Eric Greeney, who was indeed born in 1904, not in Durban, South Africa, as he claimed, but Launceston, Tasmania. It was to this small, undisturbed little town at the end of the world that she returned to assemble the last pieces of the jigsaw.\n\nPerhaps unwittingly, at this final point of discovery in her story, Greer provides her readers with a most revealing picture of herself. Her hosts and fellow guests at the seedy hotel where she spent the night before meeting the Greeney family had probably never seen the likes of her \u2013 striking in appearance, obviously wealthy, rumoured to be famous in some mysterious way, she carried with her suggestions of a world that was only vaguely within their ken. Yet she was obviously, like them, an Australian: familiar though foreign. She was quite alone.\n\nIn the stifling privacy of her hotel bedroom, the imposing celebrity figure becomes a vulnerable woman, her loneliness all the more apparent because she is unaware of it. She does not spare herself. Had she ever really loved her father? Had she ever really loved anyone? ('Don't say that!') Had he rejected her because he was afraid her cleverness would expose his lies? Why did he become a toff? She must have known that he was a fraud, why had she not admitted it to herself? Surely her mother must have known. Why had she not told Germaine? In broad Australian, she berated herself: 'You never gave the poor bugger a second thought. After you left home you never wrote, never called.'\n\n'You sound like my mother,' she cried.\n\n'Who did you think I was?' came the answering voice.56\n\nThe next morning, she made telephone contact with her father's family. 'Mrs Greeney,' she began. 'This will seem rather an odd request. Are you related to Ernest Henry Greeney?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mrs Greeney. 'He's my husband's father.' She called Mr Greeney to the phone.\n\nGermaine started again. 'My name is, or rather was . . . Germaine Greer. I'm the daughter of Henry's brother, Eric . . . I'm quite a well-known writer.' She was floundering, suddenly afraid that she was committing that sin \u2013 mortal in Australia \u2013 of sounding superior.\n\nHe helped her. 'Would you like to come and see us?' he asked. 'I'll see what I can find out from the other foster brothers and sisters.'\n\n'I beg your pardon? Did you say foster?'\n\n'Oh yes. They were all adopted. Didn't you know?'\n\nAt 2.29 that afternoon, Germaine found herself knocking on the door of the Greeneys' modest bungalow in suburban Launceston. Mrs Greeney had baked a fruitcake while Mr Greeney had gathered the family to meet their unlikely cousin. He had also visited his aunt's house to find old photos, among which was one of Emma Greeney, Germaine's adoptive grandmother, wearing a high-necked dress with a cameo brooch at the throat.\n\nShe was told that in 1920, when Germaine's father, Eric, turned sixteen, Emma and her husband were fostering eight children, of whom Eric was the much-loved second-eldest. Emma had cared for them well. All of them \u2013 Ernest, Eric, Eli, Hazel, Gwendoline, Dulcie, Kathleen and Bessie \u2013 eventually 'made something of themselves'. Now, in January 1988, as Australia was preparing to celebrate two hundred years of European settlement, their descendants, including the famous writer, actor and academic Germaine Greer, were gathered to eat fruitcake and drink cups of tea. No one had seen or heard anything of Eric since the day in 1921 when the young man sailed away to the mainland on the SS Nairana with a company of actors.\n\nGermaine dedicated her book to her three grandmothers. The first was her mother's mother, Alida Jensen Lafrank, who had loved her and been kind to her in her childhood; the second was Emma Wise Greeney, who had raised young Eric with love; the third was Rhoda Elizabeth King, her father's biological mother, the young servant girl who was deceived by her respectable married employer and forced to give her baby away.\n\nAs Greer's most personal, and probably most readable, book, Daddy was well received by critics and the public. Among the many admiring and grateful letters she received after its publication was one that adds a coda to her story. In 1992, an elderly man, Ross Dunham, wrote in a shaky hand to inform her that as a fifteen-year-old bank clerk in Ulverstone, Tasmania, he had known her grandfather, R.R.E. Hamilton ('known as Dicky').\n\nDunham's memories were of 1940. He was not to know then that Hamilton had a son who was living in a flat in Elwood, Victoria, with his wife and one-year-old daughter, still making up his mind about whether he should enlist in the armed forces.\n\nThe now-retired bank clerk remembered Hamilton, then in his seventies, arriving at the bank every business day at 2.55 pm \u2013 five minutes before closing time. After carrying out his banking transactions Hamilton would command, 'Mr Dunham, my [safe deposit] box if you please.' By this time, the bank had closed for the day. The young clerk would fetch the box and Hamilton would shuffle through the papers before calling, 'Mr Dunham, I have finished, would you let me out, please.'\n\nHis manners and demeanour were always impeccable, as was his dress. From memory, he always wore a dark grey or navy suit, a bow tie and homburg hat. He had a small moustache. His face had similarities to yours . . . He had three daughters, lived in a handsome house and drove a smart car \u2013 only used on Sundays when he and his wife went for a drive. He was a man of property.57\n\nDunham's was not the only letter Germaine received about Richard Robert Ernest Hamilton. Her archive also contains a copy of an (undated) letter she wrote in reply to one from a woman she addresses as 'Mavourneen'. 'He sounds just like my father . . . Anything else you can remember would be much appreciated.' Mavourneen's letter is not in the file. \n8\n\nThe Change\n\nI will be calm. I will be mistress of myself.\n\nJane Austen, Sense and Sensibility\n\nRemember Cheryl Davis? She who, on the day Germaine Greer started writing The Female Eunuch, was ferrying her four children to and from school in the beat-up Renault 750 while her husband Jim drove off to his business appointments in the Peugeot? Behold her now, twenty-two years later, as she sits on the tram on her way home from work. On her lap is a copy of Germaine Greer's latest book, The Change.\n\nCheryl had gone off Germaine Greer, she told her friend Junie; she now preferred Fay Weldon. She had thought The Obstacle Race was unnecessarily highbrow: all those arguments about female artists no one had ever heard of! She had not managed to finish Sex and Destiny, and could not see the point of the book, really. She had seen Daddy, We Hardly Knew You in a bookshop but the title had put her off. She was enjoying The Change, though. In light of her own experience of menopause she believed that, like The Female Eunuch, this book would change women's lives. Junie agreed with her.\n\nIt was Junie, actually, who had first given Cheryl a copy of The Female Eunuch in January 1972. (It was also Junie who had recommended that Cheryl take the pill, even though she feared it had made her, Junie, deaf.) They had read the Australian press coverage of the book and Germaine Greer's promotional tour with some bemusement (why were those journalists being so unpleasant?) and had watched its author on television when she was in Australia. Their husbands had never known a woman like Germaine Greer. Too attractive to be dismissed as a frumpy bluestocking, too raunchy to be a slut, too smart not to be noticed, what could they make of her? Jim and his mates took refuge in derision. Over their evening beers in the pub, they invented a new game: who could make up the funniest nickname for her. Jim won: his contribution 'Wormy Germy' was voted the most hilarious.\n\nAt first, Cheryl hid her copy of The Female Eunuch from Jim, though she did not think to disguise it in a brown paper cover as, she later found out, many women did. Barbecue discussions on the subject of what middle-class couples were learning to call 'women's lib' had a tendency to turn nasty. The men resented being summoned over to the women's side of the patio to defend themselves against charges of being 'male chauvinist pigs'.\n\nCheryl had felt as if lights were going on all over her brain when she read The Female Eunuch. Then she read Betty Friedan, Simone de Beauvoir, Kate Millett and the rest. Her cousin, who was a schoolteacher, was surprised that Cheryl, with her rudimentary education, could understand these books and comment on them so intelligently. Peeved, Cheryl enrolled in one of the new university degree courses that were now open by special arrangement to women who had not matriculated. She joined the Women's Electoral Lobby and started a new feminist consciousness-raising group in her neighbourhood. All around her she found like-minded women and, at least as long as the Whitlam Labor government remained in office, a degree of public support for women's liberation. Soon after the no-fault divorce laws took effect in 1975, she told Jim she was leaving him. Nice Jim, kind Jim, generous Jim, became abusive: all the way to the Family Court he fought her over custody of the children and her share of the property. Then one day it was all over; Cheryl had salvaged enough money to buy a modest house in an unfashionable suburb, and, after some further study, she got a job teaching English at a local high school. Jim fell into a deep depression, recovered, got himself back on the promotion ladder, went to France on an extended business trip, came home, remarried, bought a new house and had no more children. 'It's all about their dollars and their dicks!' said Junie.\n\nNow, about to get off the tram, Cheryl reflects on her life. It has not been easy over the years. Jim's maintenance payments were irregular and she could not afford to take him back to court. Dealing with teenagers at work all day and returning home each night to more of the same had taken its toll. Stories of Jim's success, his nice house, his attractive younger wife who liked being a homemaker, and their frequent overseas trips made her wince. 'Bastard!' said Junie.\n\nBut she regrets nothing. She is now deputy principal of her high school, glad to be relieved of the daily battles of the classroom, earning a good salary, enjoying the company of her colleagues. Her children have left home, finally, she hopes, and she refuses to become too involved in the inevitable dramas and struggles of their lives. She has survived this far and now she is free. Due, in no small part, to reading Germaine Greer's first book, The Female Eunuch, she is now firmly her own person. Her own woman.\n\nThe purpose of The Change, according to its author, was 'to demonstrate that women are at least as interesting as men and that aging women are at least as interesting as younger women'.1 This statement raises the question: interesting to whom? Certainly not to men, for Greer also argued passionately that women who have reached the climacteric have ceased to be of interest to men, and that this is a Good Thing.\n\nIn The Female Eunuch, Greer drew the world's attention to her belief that women had lost control of their sexuality and freedom to enjoy it. They had been turned into castrates whose passive, impotent bodies had become the property and playthings of the men in their lives. Twenty years later, in The Change, her arguments were not as inconsistent with those of her first book as some people thought. She identified the same problem \u2013 that men controlled women's bodies and most aspects of their lives \u2013 but she suggested different solutions. In The Female Eunuch, she had advised women to discover their sexuality, enjoy it loudly and freely, and, almost literally, to wallow in it (by tasting their menstrual blood, for example). In The Change she argued that younger women had not yet become free because men continued to desire them and to exploit them \u2013 find them interesting \u2013 and the biological and social dice, as she had revealed in Sex and Destiny, were still loaded in men's favour. Older women would need to seek other ways to achieve their liberation, and the changes they experienced during menopause would guide them. When no longer interesting to men, women would at last be free to concentrate on becoming interesting to themselves, their sisters and, ultimately, even the world.\n\nThe Change begins with middle-aged Germaine and her friend, Sandra, enjoying coffee and croissants in a cafe in Beaubourg, Paris, on a sunny spring day. At a nearby table sit two silver-haired men of about their own age entertaining two 'sleek, expensive, and very much younger women' who appear to be hanging on to every word the men utter. Sandra is depressed and furious. Observing an elderly woman with a plastic shopping bag who is hesitantly making her way through the groups of sex workers and lounging youths on the street, she vows never to become like that \u2013 an apologetic old crone living in a bedsit, creeping out each day to buy her bread and cheese. But, she says despairingly, neither will she be able, like the men at the neighbouring table, to command the attention of attractive people of the opposite sex. It's not fair!\n\nGermaine tries to think of some elderly female role models to cheer her friend \u2013 women who have defeated the stereotypes to become satisfactory exemplars of successful ageing \u2013 but she can't, just at that moment, think of a single one.\n\nThe journey inwards towards wisdom and serenity is as long as the headlong rush of our social and sexual career, if not longer, but there are no signposts to show the way. If there are leaders beckoning, most of us have no idea who they might be.2\n\nInstead, the only older women who come to mind are like her friend Flora, poor Flora who, at fifty, could not bear to live more than three weeks without a man. Germaine, who occasionally accompanied Flora to bars, despaired of her. Obsessively fishing for new boyfriends, Flora would torture her ageing feet into strappy shoes with impossibly high heels, her peekaboo bra was nearly always visible, her hitched-up slitted skirts were tight and she wore a chain around her ankle. Abandoned again and again, all she could do was wait for the next man. She thought she might kill herself.3\n\nIn Germaine's view, most of the older women who were rich and famous were no better than Flora. Only consider the magazine images of Elizabeth Taylor (born 1932), with her porcelain teeth, wig and brass earrings, marrying young construction worker Larry Fortensky; airbrushed Joan Collins (born 1933), her crepey arms only just visible, introducing yet another new 'secret' young lover to the press; and Jane Fonda (born 1937), who had made the momentous decision to concentrate on her bum during her fitness workouts 'with rather dire results for her face', and had purchased a mammoplasty to go with her new opal and diamond engagement ring. 'No matter how hard you work out,' commented Greer cattily, 'it seems there is nothing you can do for a bosom but pump it up.'4\n\nHow had it come to this? Greer's first target was her old enemy, the male medical establishment. For hundreds of years, she argued, male doctors had been torturing menopausal women through various attempts to keep them 'appetizing and responsive to male demand'. Hysterectomy and castration were prescribed as antidotes to midlife despair; Marie Curie had no sooner discovered radium than gentlemen started inserting electrically charged rods into women's vaginas.5\n\nAll of this and more, till the discovery of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) in the 1960s. Enter more villains, the international drug companies, with their successful efforts to persuade governments all over the world to define menopause as a deficiency disease for which oestrogen should be prescribed. What a bonanza!\n\nMenopausal women themselves were also culpable \u2013 and foolish. Rushing, lemming-like, to buy dye for their hair and silicone for their breasts, they forgot, said Greer, that men were only too cruelly able to distinguish between young female bosoms and old. Psychologists convinced women it was all their own fault: the less sexually available, the less generous a woman had been with her friendships during her fertile years, the nastier her menopause was likely to be. Little wonder that she would become depressed and need more medicating still.\n\nGreer did not oppose medical intervention across the board: it was important, she noted, to confront the reality that some women suffered considerable discomfort during and after menopause. She did not oppose the prescription of HRT for such women, recognising that they 'usually do feel better on estrogen, a great deal better, so much better that they realise for the first time just how unwell they felt before estrogen'. But oestrogen therapy was not necessary for all women, and nor was it of any use at all to prevent ageing or to maintain women's attractiveness to men.6\n\nThe Change is quite different from any of the self-help books about menopause that started to proliferate after the discovery of HRT, largely because it is so exquisitely illuminated by Greer's encyclopaedic knowledge of famous and not-so-famous women in history and literature. Her narrative is populated by a series of fascinating female characters. There is Philippa, daughter of the Count of Holland, who brought her mother's beautifully lettered book of herbal remedies with her when she arrived in England in 1327 to marry Edward III of England. There are the witches, whose long and illustrious history has so much to tell us about older women's power and about cruel male (and female) attempts to neutralise it. There is Vita Sackville-West, distinguished author, lover of Virginia Woolf, whose heroine in All Passion Spent, the widow Lady Slane, went off to live in Hampstead with her French maid.\n\nMost poignant of all is Simone de Beauvoir, widely acclaimed as a founder of postwar second-wave feminism, whose intellectual, philosophical and literary capacities were formidable. But, as Greer observes, de Beauvoir believed that the greatest achievement of her life was her relationship with Jean-Paul Sartre, although Sartre never said the same of his association with her. Despite the brilliance of their lifelong intellectual collaboration and 'soul marriage', he controlled her life; they never lived together and his many affairs with other women caused her great pain.\n\nGreer despaired of de Beauvoir's 'repellently male oriented' view of the sexuality of older people, believing that, even in her youth, the Frenchwoman had committed herself to an extreme and irrational fear of old age, based largely on her fear of becoming physically unattractive to men. She faced her future, said Greer, 'as unprovided as any empty-headed beauty queen'.7\n\nWhen she wrote The Change, Germaine Greer, as usual, was in the vanguard of new thinking about an important issue for women. She was seven years older than the first baby boomers: much of her influence and marketability lay in her capacity to catch the wave of change in the seconds before it broke, to seize upon her own experiences at critical life stages and generalise from them just as the millions of women lining up behind her were about to seek answers to their own dilemmas. 'But, but, but . . .' they cried upon reading her, 'this is all outrageous, ridiculous, not true . . .' And then they went away and thought about it.\n\nBy the 1990s, Germaine Greer was financially secure and more or less settled on her little farm in Essex, with her plants, animals and a moving feast of housemates; she had strengthened her ties with her old college, Newnham, at nearby Cambridge University, where she had become an unofficial fellow and special lecturer.\n\nHer work schedule was extraordinary: as well as her university teaching, she had further established her academic credentials with her continuing research and publications about women writers and with her book Shakespeare, published by Oxford University Press in 1986. A collection of non-fiction, The Madwoman's Underclothes: Essays and occasional writings 1968\u20131985, appeared in the same year. In the 1990s she published six books (some of them in collaboration with other writers and editors): The Change: Women, ageing and the menopause (1991); The Collected Works of Katherine Philips, The Matchless Orinda, Volume II: The Letters (1992) and Volume III: The Translations (1993); Slip-Shod Sibyls: Recognition, rejection and the woman poet (1995); The Surviving Works of Anne Wharton (1997); and The Whole Woman (1999). As if all of this, together with regular appearances on television and radio, lectures and book promotion tours at home and abroad, and an active social life, was not enough, she wrote articles and features for many British newspapers including The Spectator, The Times, The Independent, The Oldie and The Guardian. Her popular Country Notebook column ran weekly in the Sunday Times from 1999 to 2005.\n\nDid all of this hard work have something to do with her professed loss of interest in sex? She claimed to have lived a celibate life after her failed operation to save her fertility in her late thirties: 'I have a bed in there as big as a ball park but nothing ever happens [in it] . . .' she told journalist Christena Appleyard of The Sun in 1983. However, in 2017, a female friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, raised her eyebrows in disbelief and laughed when told about this.\n\nWhatever the truth of Greer's personal life, it remains the case that, in middle age, her writing and public comments about sex were very different from those of the days of her involvement with the counterculture and Oz magazine. 'I'm beginning to think sex is really disgusting and we should have nothing to do with it,' she said in 1986.8 She might have added that most articles about sex were no longer the attention-grabbers they had once been. By the 1990s, when images of copulating men and women had become practically de rigueur in every movie with a love story, 'A groupie's vision' and the other pieces Greer wrote to shock a bourgeois society in the 1960s had started to look old hat, their appeal more quaint than scandalous.\n\nIf her own modified sexual proclivities and the socio-sexual changes she had helped to bring about eventually caused Greer to shift her focus away from the joys and trials of sex, they did not stop her from continuing to enjoy a good fight. Ever the contrarian, she needed to be heard, and she needed to be The Boss. Her personality was such that conflict was all but inevitable.\n\nAs the end of the millennium drew closer, she was involved in several headline-grabbing clashes. The first was a court battle with a gynaecologist named Mary Anderson. In The Change, Greer had criticised Dr Anderson for suggesting that women's declining interest in sex and failure to make themselves attractive during and after the menopause caused their husbands to become depressed, develop anxiety, even become alcoholic and seek extramarital comfort. Greer wanted to know why this female doctor was taking the husbands' part, why she was refusing to recognise that women needed support at this time in their lives rather than blame for whatever ailed their men. Nowhere, she said, did Anderson suggest that a man should take responsibility for his wife's wellbeing.\n\nThe doctor sued Greer, claiming that she had damaged her professional reputation by portraying her as lacking sympathy for women. She won the case and Greer was forced to pay substantial damages. Refusing to capitulate, Greer fought on by attacking the High Court judgment. In November 1998, she attempted to restate her position in an article written for The Oldie, a journal edited by her old friend Richard Ingrams. But Ingrams refused to publish it. 'Your article as it stands is very risky,' he faxed her, because '(a) it repeats the libel of Anderson and (b) it could be said to be motivated by malice.' In a clumsy attempt at humour, he ended the fax by pointing out to her the dangers of being seen as a 'mad, malicious rude old bat'.\n\nGermaine's response was swift. 'You should be ashamed of yourself,' she faxed him back. 'Censorship is a way of life, but not of my life . . . I didn't think you would run the piece \u2013 I do not have the time to write you another one. Why not ask the lovely rich Mary Anderson to write for you instead?'\n\nSoon afterwards, on 6 December 1998, a report that could only have been instigated by Greer, headed 'Ingrams sacks \"Old Bat\"', appeared in the Evening Standard's Londoner's Diary. According to this report, Ingrams had sacked her from The Oldie and called her 'a mad, malicious, evil, rude old bat'.\n\nIngrams protested. 'I never said you were sacked,' he faxed, 'I never said you were evil. And you know perfectly well why I refused to print your article. You should be even more ashamed of yourself than before.'9\n\nAs with so many of Germaine's disagreements with old friends, once the brouhaha had died down, her relationship with Ingrams resumed and they remain amicable to this day. However, this episode provides yet another illustration of why so many people were and are wary of her. Long ago, her schoolmate Margaret O'Keeffe, a gentle, sensitive girl, had recognised the streak of cruelty in Germaine's personality and had chosen to avoid her. Later, friends who loved her for her many wonderful qualities had to learn how to navigate the shoals of her vitriol and know when it was wise to back off.\n\nIn 1995, following the publication of the book Hippie Hippie Shake by her old friend Richard Neville, Germaine became involved in another publishing controversy, but this time she was the person threatening to sue. She had refused to cooperate with Neville when he was writing the book, telling him that she was bored with the 1960s. He offered her the opportunity to read the manuscript and amend it if necessary, but she refused to do that too. When she finally read the book, she discovered Neville had misremembered a conversation in which he thought she had told him that the scar on her abdomen was the result of a hysterectomy. She was mightily offended and demanded that the publishers place erratum slips in each copy, under threat of litigation. They didn't and, in the end, she didn't sue either.\n\nThe significance of this episode eventually lay more in the resulting publicity than in Neville's actual mistake or Greer's annoyance, which even she must have realised was unreasonable, given that he had offered her the chance to correct the proofs. But in May 1995 she ignited further debate by referring to her friend's faux pas in a Spectator column titled 'We shall not be neutered'. Neville's mistake was, she conceded, a bona fide error, 'Richard having only the foggiest notion of what a hysterectomy might be.' But her objections had substance: she had been crusading against unnecessary medical procedures carried out on women for the whole of her life, she wrote, and it would totally discredit her and her arguments if it were thought that she had undergone such a procedure herself.10\n\nSensing a big story, Guardian columnist and averred feminist Suzanne Moore weighed in to the discussion. Moore belonged to a younger generation of women who, believing they had discovered newer and better interpretations of feminism for modern times, sought to distance themselves from some of the views of their older sisters. In an article titled 'So why no child for the Female Eunuch?', Moore argued that if Greer had deliberately had her uterus removed all those years ago, it would not only discredit her work but \u2013 major statement \u2013 'It would alter the whole history of feminism.' 'A lot of those older feminists did not have children,' she wrote provocatively.\n\nGermaine responded in print with characteristic bile. Belittling Moore as 'the pouting pundit of the Guardian's tabloid section', she remarked on Moore's 'fuck-me shoes' and exposed cleavage. 'So much lipstick must rot the brain,' she opined.\n\nThen, moving away from the personal, she pointed out to Moore and other younger feminists of her ilk that attacks on their own kind, especially attacks on older members of the sisterhood \u2013 'senior feminists' \u2013 were destructive. Men, she said, had always known how to support each other, to 'run together behind the Alpha male'. Moore's attack on her was sad proof that younger feminists had failed to learn the important lesson that she, Germaine Greer, had been trying to teach them for years: 'The Running Dog runs for his pack. The Running Bitch runs for his pack too, not quite grasping that she will never be admitted to membership, no matter how many other women she mangles.'11\n\nA couple of weeks later, in The Times Magazine, Greer told her readers that her sister Jane had faxed her to let her know that the Moore story was all over the Australian press. 'I reckon you can tell she's a disaster by the names of [her] kids . . . \"Bliss\" and \"Scarlett\" . . . yeuch!' Jane had commented. The two sisters, Germaine reported, then invented a game of giving names to the children of 'lipstick feminists'. Girls' names were easy \u2013 'Cherry', 'Ruby', 'Poppy'. Boys' presented more difficulty. 'Red' and 'Plum' were allowed, but not 'Raisin' or 'Brandy'.12\n\nSo much for female solidarity!\n\nA different kind of conflict centred on a novel by the well-known author Salman Rushdie, which the American writer Paul Berman later referred to as 'the most consequential political event in the history of the novel'.13 Rushdie, an old friend of Germaine, was born in Bombay, in what was then British India, into a Muslim family. He moved to England at the age of eight and was educated at Rugby School and King's College, Cambridge University. The publication of his novel The Satanic Verses in 1988 caused an immediate storm in the Muslim world, where it was perceived as mocking Mohammed. This was largely because of its title, which refers to some verses of the Koran that are said to have been dictated to Mohammed by the devil ('Good story,' Rushdie is alleged to have said to himself), but also because of some of the content, not least the writer's choice of giving the names of the Prophet's wives to prostitutes in the scenes in the novel that take place in a brothel.\n\nOn Valentine's Day \u2013 14 February \u2013 1989, the theocratic ruler of Iran, Ayatollah Khomeini, issued a fatwa against Rushdie and all who had contributed to the book's publication. Rushdie went into a long period of hiding, protected by Scotland Yard. Violence erupted around the world. Rushdie's Italian translator was stabbed, but survived, his Japanese translator was murdered and his Norwegian publisher was seriously wounded by a terrorist, there were riots in Turkey and Pakistan, bombings in London and in bookstores throughout the United Kingdom. Employees of the publishing house Penguin, the book's original publishers, whom Rushdie's detractors declared to be Jewish, were forced to surround themselves with security agents, bomb-sniffing dogs and bomb detection machines. Peter Mayer, CEO of the Penguin group, received blood-spattered death letters, his daughter was targeted and parents at her school demanded he withdraw her \u2013 but the book stayed in print.\n\nIn spite of the decision to give Rushdie police protection, many Right-leaning members of the British and American establishments argued against his stance. Robert Runcie, the Archbishop of Canterbury, invoked England's blasphemy laws, and the foreign secretary Geoffrey Howe considered the book to be 'extremely critical [and] rude' about England. Martin Amis, who strongly supported Rushdie, had a mild argument with Prince Charles at a dinner party where, in Amis's words, Charles declared, '\"I'm sorry, but if someone insults someone else's deepest convictions, well then,\" blah blah blah . . .' Former American President Jimmy Carter deplored the 'insult to the sacred beliefs of our Moslem friends'.14\n\nMost affiliates of the liberal Left took an opposite view. Members of the British, European and American literary establishments protested angrily in defence of free speech. Many were friends of Rushdie who, to their intense annoyance (because part of their raison d'\u00eatre was tolerance of difference), were accused of being 'Islamophobic'. Fay Weldon, one of Britain's most powerful female writers, was one of a group of authors, journalists and other supporters of Rushdie who were accused of being guilty of Islamophobia in a 24-page pamphlet published by the Runnymede Trust, a liberal think-tank on race relations and cultural diversity. Weldon retaliated furiously. 'If being an Islamophobe means you express anger when your good friend and colleague is sentenced to death, then I suppose I must qualify,' she declared.15\n\nWhat about Germaine? Forced to choose between her avowed liberalism and her support of 'the sacred beliefs of our Muslim friends', she chose the latter. When asked to sign a petition defending Rushdie, she declined, saying, 'I refuse to sign petitions for this book of his, which was about his own troubles.' She went on to describe him as 'a megalomaniac, an Englishman with dark skin'. Rushdie never forgave her. More than ten years later he said of her lack of support at the height of the fatwa, 'She attacked me in public . . . She may not wish to remember it, but that is what she did. I noticed it and I minded . . . What people don't often say about Germaine Greer is that she is barking mad. She is an idiot . . . She's mad, and her determination to be out of step leads her into batty positions. We just watch her and wonder why.'16\n\nIn 2012, Rushdie stated his position very clearly. Drawing a distinction between 'multiculturalism' and 'cultural relativism', he argued:\n\nCultural relativism is the death of ethical thought, supporting the right of tyrannical priests to tyrannise, of despotic parents to mutilate their daughters, of bigoted individuals to hate homosexuals and Jews, because it is part of their 'culture' to do so. Bigotry, prejudice and violence or the threat of violence are not human 'values'. They are proof of the absence of such values.17\n\nGreer did not accept this view. In the years that followed the Rushdie affair, many of her comments on contentious issues like female genital mutilation sprang from her conviction that the West had no right to impose its values upon other cultures, which, she argued, were perfectly capable of making their own rules to suit their own circumstances.\n\nIn 1996 the name Germaine Greer again hit the headlines. This time it was about her views on transgender people, a subject that would dog her for many years to come. Her immediate target was a fellow Australian, Rachael (formerly Russell) Padman. In 1977, at the age of 23, Padman had arrived at the all-male St John's College, Cambridge, to complete a PhD in physics. Almost immediately, he started a course of oestrogen and prepared to live as a woman, wearing make-up and women's clothing. After eighteen months, Padman started telling fellow students and college staff of his intention to have gender reassignment surgery. Everyone was very supportive and he discovered that the university actually had a policy of respecting students' choices in this regard, as long as the choice was made on appropriate medical advice. In 1982, after she had changed her name by deed poll to become Rachael, she had the surgery performed in London.\n\nThe faculty board approved Rachael's PhD while she was still in hospital, and she subsequently spent two years as a research fellow in the United States. In 1996, having returned to Cambridge, she was elected to a fellowship at Newnham College, where Germaine Greer was also a fellow and a member of the governing board. As Padman tells the story, she had assumed that the all-female governing body knew she was trans (after all, it was no secret in Cambridge), and had agreed it was not an issue before they elected her. When Greer (who later alleged she was among the fellows who did not know that Padman was a trans woman) found out, she spoke publicly about her opposition to Padman's election. 'We have driven a coach and horses through our statutes, and I can't believe we did it,' she told The Times and the BBC World Service. 'I like Dr Padman. We all know she is a distinguished physicist, but what is the point of having clear statutes if we just ignore them? . . . We have to be true to the spirit of the original bequest to the college as a women's college for women.'\n\nThe national and international press had a field day with the story. The college principal, Dr Onora O'Neill, and most of the fellows supported Padman, and her fellowship proceeded without further incident, but Greer was so angry that she resigned her own fellowship of the college she loved.\n\nOn 25 June 1997, journalist Clare Longrigg, writing in The Guardian, attacked Greer in an article titled 'A sister with no Fellow feeling'. Longrigg claimed that it was Greer who had outed Padman, and that Greer was an eccentric and unreliable teacher. Greer threatened to sue, and The Guardian issued an apology and settled a sum to be paid as damages, which Greer donated to Newnham College. She resumed her fellowship, later describing herself as 'a Fellow of sorts'.18\n\nOn 26 March 2012, after she had been glitter-bombed by the protest group Queer Avengers in Wellington, New Zealand, Greer issued a statement that gave her side of the events of 1996\u201397. The accusation levelled at her by the group \u2013 that she had 'outed' Padman and that Padman had lost her job as a consequence \u2013 she said, was completely false, for Padman had already outed herself 'all over the front page of The Times'. Nor had she opposed Padman's election, since no election had been held. If there had been a discussion, she said, she would have argued against it, but if a subsequent vote had gone against her she would have accepted the situation. As it was, Padman was given a fellowship and Greer had resigned hers.\n\nGreer had some legal justification for her stance. Padman's appointment to Newnham pre-dated the Gender Recognition Act 2004 by nine years, and Greer's argument that the appointment contravened the college's statutes was substantially correct. Padman had no legal status as a woman, yet she was admitted as a fellow of the women's college at a time when the college did not accept men. However, this did not prevent a growing number of people from believing that Germaine Greer was increasingly out of step with progressive thought.19\n\nBeing out of step was not new to her, but she was more used to being in the vanguard of popular opinion than behind it. Now it was starting to look as if she was stuck in a past age of prejudice and ignorance on a crucial matter of gender. Many bright younger feminists rolled their eyes.\n\nLest there be any doubt about her opposition to trans women, Greer set out her position on this and other issues in her next major book, The Whole Woman, first published in 1999.\n\nThe Whole Woman is a grumpy, sour, curmudgeonly tome; iconoclastic one moment, indignant the next. Where The Female Eunuch, her most successful book and the child of her youth, offered new insights and hope, and The Change promised serenity, this one set out to demonstrate that the tantalising promises of shining new lives for women was yet to be realised: in many ways things were now worse than they had ever been.\n\nSingled out for special, lethal treatment in the book were the 'lifestyle feminists'. For thirty years, said Greer, she had tried to support \u2013 even champion \u2013 all styles of feminism, from 'lipstick lesbians' to 'the prostitutes' union', believing that all were part of a common struggle, but when these smug lifestyle types tried to assert that the movement had gone just far enough, that women could now have it all \u2013 money, sex, fashion \u2013 the fire in her belly exploded. She had vowed never to write a book like this, she said, but now, at the turn of the millennium, when some women were starting to believe that old fighting feminists like her were pass\u00e9 and the days of struggle were over, she had to speak.\n\nMatriarch Greer, schoolteacher Greer, had news for young women of the younger generation. In some ways, their lives may have become 'nobler and richer', but if they thought women were now the independent, liberated beings she had once thought they might become, they were deluding themselves. It was never about equality with men: 'I didn't fight to get women out from behind vacuum cleaners to get them on to the board of Hoover.' It was about women becoming the subjects of their own lives rather than the objects of other people's. Who would ever have thought, after the successes of the first liberationists who marched on the Atlantic City Boardwalk in protest at the Miss America contest in 1969, that bigger, brighter, more glitzy pageants of that kind would endure into the twenty-first century? Who could have predicted the rates of sexual abuse suffered by female military recruits and policewomen? What difference had it made that 103 female Labour politicians (lifestyle feminists all) were now 'running around' Parliament in 'little red suits' making the Palace of Westminster look 'like a Butlin's holiday camp', when real power still rested with the men? And women's lives had become so much harder: 'On every side we see women troubled, exhausted, mutilated, lonely, guilty, mocked by the headlined successes of the few.'\n\nShe had vowed never to write this book, but now, in view of what was happening to women, she could not remain silent. It was 'time to get angry again'.20\n\nBeginning, like The Female Eunuch, with a section on 'Body', The Whole Woman recycles all the old arguments about the beauty stereotypes \u2013 the Barbies with their improbably long legs and nipple-free bosoms, the Miss America contestants with their impossible-to-emulate textbook body specifications. The old foes are also there in strength: the surgeons who continue to hone their skills in Western versions of female mutilation \u2013 hysterectomy, mastectomy, episiotomy and the rest; the rapacious multimillion-dollar pharmaceutical and cosmetic companies; and the newer lifestyle enterprises that have joined in the lucrative sport of exploiting women's vanity. All of these, as discrete industries and as elements of the multinational corporations that devour all before them, are the villains of the book, and a horrified Greer observes how their tentacles are spreading across developing countries.\n\nIf it all was bad in 1969, now, in 1999, she writes, it was worse than ever because women everywhere had been outsmarted. Foolish and gullible in their quest for the perfect body, they were racing to avail themselves of every frightening new development in cosmetic surgery, every new 'youth' drug, every new fitness gimmick, as they fell for each latest piece of propaganda put out by the evil empires. And when all their expensive efforts failed, they then turned to the medications that had been cunningly invented by one group of villains to enrich another group \u2013 the psychiatrists and psychologists who had created a whole new raft of depressive conditions, just for them.21 And that is just the 'Body' chapter.\n\nMore arch-villains emerge in the sections that follow: 'Mind', 'Love' and 'Power'. There is the economy, which, because it depends on spending before saving, decrees that women must shop. Every time she leaves the house, says Greer, a woman buys something. Men have more important things to do: 'Men don't shop, even for their own underpants.' Shopping exhausts women, as their ever-fruitless quest for that elusive 'something nice' that will make them happy renders them powerless. Shopping is tough work. The supermarkets, especially callous in this regard, make women work so hard and for so long in locating, choosing, loading and paying for their products at the checkout (and she wrote this before self-service checkouts were invented), that there is no longer time (or need) for them to perform traditional household tasks like preserving seasonal food.\n\nIs Greer describing her own experience when she illustrates her point that the supermarket owners dictate what the customer will buy?\n\nSuppose she is looking for a jar of pimentos. She looks among the tinned vegetables and cannot find it. She looks in the Tex-Mex section. No luck. She looks among the pickles. Foiled again, she asks a man with a company pin in his lapel. 'Never heard of them.' The implications are plain: there is no such thing and the customer is mad.22\n\nIt will only be when someone higher up works out that the store can buy shipments of pimentos at a price that will permit a huge mark-up, she rages, that bottled pimentos will begin to exist. At that point the advertising will kick in and some TV celebrity chef will be seen 'sticking bottled pimentos in every recipe'.\n\nOne imagines a frustrated, 'mad' Germaine at a supermarket somewhere in Essex, searching for a jar of pimentos, shoving her trolley furiously from aisle to aisle, searching shelf after shelf, muttering her usual imprecations and expletives as she goes.\n\nGreer's arguments against transgenderism are set out in a section of the 'Body' chapter pejoratively titled 'Pantomime dames'. Her first and main contention is that male doctors are only prepared to create 'manmade women' because they regard all women as defective men. She distinguishes between trans people who have not 'opted for mutilation' and postoperative transgender people, giving examples of exotic trans prostitutes who are expected to 'bugger' their clients, and a hair-raisingly graphic description of the penectomy operation itself, plus details of all the excruciating things that can go wrong for years after the surgery.\n\nThen she tells us about the 'hitjas', garishly painted individuals in India whose genitalia have been 'bloodily and painfully' removed, sometimes by themselves, and sacrificed to the mother goddess. Her point here seems to be that in India, a third 'intersexual' sex can be acknowledged and created without a man needing to pass himself off as a woman.\n\nApparently referring to new and forthcoming legislation in Europe and America, Greer notes that people who have undergone male to female (MTF) reconstructive surgery are now being awarded full civil rights (for example, in marriage), according to their chosen gender. In framing these laws, says Greer, no one consulted women as to whether they wanted to accept these male people into their sisterhood, or whether women might think that accepting them could be damaging to their identity and self-esteem. As a variation of her first argument, she claims that people's easy acceptance of male to female gender reassignment might be because females are seen as not possessing a gender at all in their own right, that is, they are simply 'not male'. On this premise, removing a male penis would turn a man into a non-male, thus putting him into the same (assumed) second-rate category as all women. This is objectionable, says Greer, first because it is an insult to all women and second because it gives a man the unwarranted right to claim membership of a proud sisterhood.\n\nGreer has relatively little to say here on the subject of female to male (FTM) transgenderism. She notes that fewer FTM men are prostitutes, that surgery to construct a penis is highly complex, that FTM transitions are much rarer than MTF, and that FTM men do not display themselves as MTF women do. Adding fuel to her argument that 'deficient' males are easily relegated to the female gender because all women are regarded as deficient males anyway, FTM men, she says, find it hard to be accepted into the 'superior' male world by those they wish to join as brothers. In the locker room, the blokes will reject them.\n\nAnother contentious section of The Whole Woman is 'Mutilation', in which she enlarges on her widely criticised views on female genital mutilation (FGM). Moving seamlessly from describing how, in 1997, the secret women's society Bondo entered the Grafton camp for displaced persons in Sierra Leone and removed the clitorises of 600 women without anaesthetic or antiseptics, she claims that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that clitorises of more than three-eighths of an inch should be removed from baby girls before they are fifteen months old, and that five such procedures are performed every day in the United States.23 The Academy itself presents a different view.24\n\nIn 'Mutilation', Greer notes that any doctor in the United Kingdom who practises FGM is struck off the medical register, while surgeons routinely perform a variety of gender reassignment and cosmetic surgeries which 'mutilate' both men and women. She suggests that there are two kinds of mutilation: the 'bad' kind comprises practices like cosmetic surgery, hysterectomies, caesarean sections and episiotomies \u2013 all legal in Western societies; the 'good' includes genital piercing and clitoridectomies as commonly performed in some Muslim cultures. The basis for the good\/bad distinction is that the 'bad' kind of mutilation is done by men to women while the 'good' is about women asserting control over their own bodies.\n\nShe also argues that the criminalisation of FGM in most Western countries is culturally offensive.\n\nLooked at in its full context the criminalization of FGM can be seen to be what African nationalists since Jomo Kenyatta have been calling it, an attack on cultural identity. Any suggestion that male genital mutilation should be outlawed would be understood to be a frontal attack on the cultural identity of Jews and Muslims.25\n\nIn the final section of the book, 'Liberation', Greer acknowledges that 'women are acquiring a measure of confidence and beginning to kick free', but she sees even this as problematic. As women have gained more independence, she says, men are backing away from their traditional responsibilities as husbands and fathers. Life for single women is really hard. (Cheryl Davis would agree with her on that one.) She applauds single mothers for their 'loyal, unsparing labour', but she really has it in for those bright young things who stride across the world stage in their high heels and smart suits.26\n\nA 'new feminism' that celebrates the right (i.e. duty) to be pretty in an array of floaty dresses and little suits put together for starvation wages by adolescent girls in Asian sweat-shops is no feminism at all.27\n\nRecalling the early days of feminism, she remarks that women, like black people, understood themselves to be colonised, but unlike the blacks they did not sing and dance and celebrate their difference. Blacks knew it was futile to pretend to be white, but the new feminists remained unsure of their identity as women, and (she implies) probably spent too much time agonising over it. Since those women who seek to ape men's behaviour and aspire to become their equals are rejected by the brotherhood, she argues, it would surely be better not to try. The dignified alternative is for women to stay with their own kind, to keep to their own company, just as men insist on keeping to theirs. If this means segregation, she says grimly, then 'so be it'.28\n\nThe Whole Woman was not well-received by most critics. (The New Republic devoted seven thousand words to rebutting its main arguments.) But she received her usual bag of enthusiastic fan mail from 'ordinary' readers. Young Kiri and Jennie Morley, for example, having decided that the best birthday present for their mother, Valerie, would be a letter from Germaine Greer, wrote to 'Mum's favourite person' asking her to send birthday greetings and to address three questions.\n\n1. How long did it take you to write The Whole Woman?\n\n2. Do some of the concepts in the book (as above) come to you in every-day life? Or as you were writing the book?\n\n3. How and why do you believe you got so famous?\n\nGermaine replied:\n\nI don't know the answers to your questions, except that it took me my whole life to write The Whole Woman.\n\nWriting is my life, my everyday life. And bugger me if I know why I'm so famous.29\n9\n\nComing home\n\nBreathes there the man, with soul so dead,\n\nWho never to himself hath said,\n\nThis is my own, my native land!\n\nSir Walter Scott, 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel', Canto VI1\n\nGermaine Greer's public profile has always been much higher in England than Australia, and for some years after her bruising experiences with the Australian media in 1972 she was wary of returning to her homeland. Gradually, however, as the years went by, she came back more often as her ties with her Australian family and friends became closer. In Sydney she generally stays with Margaret Fink and her family, who delight in giving parties for her and all their friends. In Victoria she is always welcome at Ann Polis's house in inner-city Fitzroy, and at her sister Jane's beautiful seaside property in Sorrento.\n\nAs a self-employed writer, journalist and performer, she usually manages to ensure that her work contracts include all travel expenses. She insists on business- or first-class airfares and she demands to be well paid, especially for her radio and television appearances. She is not tight-fisted when it comes to spending her money on such items as furniture and pictures for her homes, and jewellery.\n\nIs she English or Australian? By the year 2000, she had spent more of her life in England than Australia. Furious at being made to stand in the 'aliens' queue at British airports after Great Britain joined the European Union in 1973, she eventually decided to take out dual British\u2013Australian citizenship. She has been quoted as saying she will not settle permanently in Australia until the country has a treaty with its Indigenous people.\n\nIn many of her performances and interviews on British radio and television, Germaine could easily be mistaken for an upper-class Englishwoman, for only the faintest trace of an Australian accent is to be discerned. But the tape recordings now available in her archive reveal the voice of another, private Germaine Greer who, as she records her thoughts while walking her dogs or driving through the countryside, often explodes into pure Australian. On the proposed Identity Card for British residents, for example, she recorded in 1997:\n\nI managed to be quite funny, thank goodness [in a televised interview] about the bloody Identity Card. Jesus wept! It has to have the Union Jack in the upper corner. I'm not going to carry the Union Jack! I'm Australian. Gimme one with an Australian flag on it. The Australians were good enough to fight the bloody war for these people. I hate the whole idea!2\n\nWith her increasing sense of Australianness came a longing to further repair the rift between herself and her family, which was showing signs of narrowing as the years went by. She had always loved her 'little' brother, Barry, and was growing ever closer to Jane, her sister. Both siblings had families of their own now, nephews and nieces who might be proud to acknowledge Germaine Greer as their aunt. It was not too late for her to become part of the wider family, to experience a sense of real belonging to her own. In 1992, she decided to invite her mother to visit her in England. Her plan was that she and Peg could spend some quiet time at The Mills, do some sightseeing in England and Ireland, and travel to Europe to research the Lafrank side of the family.\n\nThe visit was not a success. Peg was not in the best health; at age 73 she had little appetite for rushed, stressful sightseeing. Germaine tried, but she was as impatient as ever with her mother and she made little attempt to adjust her own frantic schedules to accommodate Peg's needs. And, of course, just as Germaine feared but expected, Peg was utterly out of place in England. Eccentric enough on her home turf, the beach at Mentone, in her leotard, she was a complete oddity in the polite academic and literary circles of Cambridge and London. Germaine was not easily embarrassed but she learned to be careful about where to take her mother. She tried to defuse the situation by joking with her friends about Peggy's strange habits and painting a picture of her as a 'character'. 'It's a shame that your mother wasn't able to come,' wrote the organiser of an Eton Literary Society dinner, where Germaine had been the guest speaker:\n\nI was rather looking forward to seeing her resplendent in her yellow joggers. I hope her chest infection clears up soon and that you yourself will manage to keep your patience with the demands of her egg-sandwich cravings. If you ever did make good on your threat of pushing her off a parapet, you might find the attention you are getting from the tabloids would get worse before it got better.3\n\nIn 1997, Peggy Greer fell and broke her kneecap. While she was in hospital it became apparent that she was starting to suffer from dementia. Jane, with her brother Barry, was carrying most of the responsibility of caring for her and making decisions about her future. Germaine desperately wanted to be involved in those decisions. 'Jane's in charge. I trust her decisions [but Peggy] must remain free as long as possible, to the last minute. The one thing she's going to want to be is free.'4\n\nEventually, Peggy Greer settled into a retirement home in Hastings, a small seaside town that was close to Jane's property on the Mornington Peninsula. Germaine visited her whenever she was in Australia.\n\nAt the same time, her attachment to her English home, The Mills, with its domesticated animals and cultivated vegetation, was waning. Now in her sixties, she was suffering anxiety, and her old depression came back as she realised that, one day, perhaps soon, she would be unable to care properly for her beloved home. Maybe it would be a good idea to sell it. 'It would not be such a terrible trauma because gardening at The Mills has become so desperately hard.'5\n\nGermaine had first suffered the 'black dog' of depression as a teenager. 'I thought it was normal,' she told readers of her column in The Oldie in 1992. 'I was the hollow girl, head filled with straw. I won scholarship after scholarship and still I dragged my feet along blank suburban streets. I read books the way other people sniff glue, to get out of my miserable self.'6 During all the years of her success and adventures, the illness often lay dormant, surfacing mainly after the end of a relationship or in times of financial anxiety, but she always knew it was there, lurking. In the English winter of 1999\u20132000, she confided to readers of her weekly Daily Telegraph column that she was having a major episode. She would lie awake, night after night, she wrote, staring into the blackness. As each gloomy day dawned, she would find herself trudging miserably through the mud with only her dogs for company. She wondered who would feed her birds and animals if she became too ill to get out of bed. And who, for that matter, would feed her?\n\nThe new millennium brought little joy. One of her dogs, Margot, became blind and very ill before dying in 2000. Mollie, the surviving standard poodle, who had always slept outside in her own kennel, took to waiting by the kitchen door, demanding to be allowed to sleep inside. On their regular walks she never let her mistress out of her sight. Her neediness worried Germaine, who had so many other commitments.\n\nHer last cat, Shanghai Jim, had died only a short time before Margot, and the other domestic animals and birds were ailing. 'Life at The Mills has been so muted and sad, with only one dog and no cat, one remaining hen and a goose taken by the fox last week and dragged across the plough, that I could only whinge, and I try not to do that,' she told her Daily Telegraph audience.7\n\nShanghai Jim and Christopher had come with her to The Mills in 1985. When Christopher died in 1994, she was bereft. She mourned Jim too, for he had been her faithful companion ever since he was born on the hearthrug of her London flat, but she was grimly aware that his last act had been to kill a bird. She realised now that domestic cats were an ecological disaster: she would never have another one.\n\nShe tried to find a logical explanation for her unhappiness. Overwork leading to physical illness? Probably. Spending up to sixteen hours a day in her workshop in front of a computer editing the poetry of Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea (1661\u20131720), might have been damaging to her eyesight. One morning she woke up unable to see out of one eye. She feared blindness, but the problem turned out to be an attack of herpes in the eye, brought on by a weakened immune system. Or could the source of her depression be disappointment? People, perhaps a lover, she declared in one of her columns, had hurt her: by this time in her life she had come to expect that most of them would. But the real problem was the depressive illness itself.\n\nSympathetic readers wrote letters suggesting various remedies. A female doctor urged her to take antidepressants, but she responded as many a self-disciplined, convent-educated woman would: she could not take the easy way out, she would find redemption through fasting, exertion and self-denial.\n\nShe also faced practical problems. Her modus operandi of caring for her labour-intensive property with the aid of assorted students and Non-Paying Guests was still working well enough most of the time. She claimed to be happiest when the bedrooms of her house were all occupied and she was out in the early morning collecting eggs, asparagus and artichokes for lunch, baking bread or driving home from the supermarket, her Mercedes Estate Wagon full of provisions for her household, but she could not rely on her guests to adopt her own standards and level of responsibility for The Mills. Gates would be left open, dogs would attack the geese, and she found it hard to understand why the young people would do annoying things like borrowing and losing her jewellery, leaving lights on and forgetting to lock doors. She was still travelling abroad as a journalist, lecturer and commentator, and her visits to Australia were becoming more frequent, but always she was plagued with anxiety about what might be going on at The Mills in her absence.\n\nEven when she was in residence, she was finding her garden difficult to manage, not least because her enthusiasm was waning. When a friend, a distinguished poet, inquired one day in an Oxford pub how her garden was faring, she replied, with a colonial bluntness that frightened him into escaping to an alternative hostelry, that it was dying. On reflection, she told this person, she thought the best thing for it would be euthanasia. It was a mess: the herb garden was overgrown, the roses had become impossible to prune, the toughest weeds were gradually taking over. And she hardly cared, because 'these days, the only plants that delight me are those that are naturalising themselves in the wood, sweet violets, narcissi, bluebells, wood anenomae . . .'8\n\nPart of her turning away from the ideal of the cultivated English garden was the influence of her sister Jane, who is a well-known Australian botanist. Jane lives with her husband on an attractive property at Sorrento, on the fertile Mornington Peninsula, about one hour's drive from Melbourne. Jane did not go to university upon leaving school, but after she had brought up her two sons she decided to develop her interest in the biodiversity of the Peninsula by studying botany at the University of Melbourne. Before the century's end, she had become a distinguished professional with her own practice, offering expert advice to private and public clients. Her special interests include the preservation and regeneration of indigenous plants and landscapes, and she is an expert on the local coastal vegetation near her home.\n\nGermaine defers to her sister's superior knowledge of plants and botany. As her own passion for gardening, so elegantly expressed in the gardens she created at Pianelli and The Mills, metamorphosed into a love of natural landscapes and a fierce desire to protect them, she at last became fully aware of the extraordinarily fragile and neglected beauty of her native land. She became her sister's pupil, hungry to learn every detail about the identification and cultivation of Australian native species.\n\nGermaine and her sister had not been close in childhood or early adulthood. 'I'm six years older than my little sister,' she told writer Duncan Fallowell in 1994, 'and so I was used by my mother as my sister's nanny. So I hated my sister.' It was not until her 1981 visit to Australia \u2013 that same visit on which she had her final lunch in Melbourne with her father \u2013 that she began to rediscover her sister. After that, they grew 'closer and closer'. 'We're both foul-mouthed,' she told Fallowell. 'You should hear her playing tennis with her posh friends. She has a huge, passionate heart . . .'9\n\nIn her book White Beech: The rainforest years, published in 2013, Greer describes how she and Jane, on the botanising holidays they had started to take together in the 1990s, developed an intimacy that became precious to both of them. They covered many miles in Jane's off-road vehicle, always on the lookout for 'burny-bits' \u2013 tracts of land that had been burned and where new shoots of precious growth could be investigated and photographed. Germaine felt herself to be her happiest, most Australian self on these trips, as she and her sister traversed the country, munching companionably on bags of fruit and aniseed jellies, stopping regularly for a beer and a pie. 'Nothing tastes better,' she commented later, 'than a cold beer and a hot pie at Woollabookankyah or the Black Stump.'10\n\nLike many travellers in Australia, the sisters eventually started to feel that they would like to find one part of the vast land that they might buy and call their own. Germaine had created gardens before \u2013 in England and in Italy \u2013 but never in her home country, and never with another person who was close to her. This new dream was much more than a desire to own property: it was a reaching back to her roots, to home and to a kind of familial intimacy that she had never known, but which she might find with Jane as they worked together to discover, nurture and restore the land.\n\nThe other purpose of their travels was to find a suitable resting place for the Germaine Greer Archive, which at that time was stored in a large, purpose-built storage space at The Mills. White Beech chronicles this search, telling of the author's pain as she observed the environmental degradation of her country \u2013 the decimation of old forests, the gaping quarries, the acres and acres of barren land that had been destroyed by grazing sheep and cattle. As she travelled the continent from Western Australia across the desert heartland to Queensland and New South Wales, she took anguished note of all the evidence of her homeland's rape \u2013 the deserted farms, the dying old towns, the forlorn, decaying homesteads of the European settlers whose vain hopes of recreating the verdant farms and pleasant market towns of the old country had been defeated by this stubborn, brooding, timeless landscape.\n\nShe considered buying a property at Eden, on the south coast of New South Wales. Once truly a paradise, it was now dominated by a Japanese woodchip mill that had been logging in the old-growth forests of south-eastern New South Wales and the Gippsland region for years. She could never live there, she decided, and she felt she no longer had the stomach to fight the multinational interests that were destroying the place.\n\nWhat she really wanted, she thought, was a piece of desert. So on her next visit to Australia she flew, alone this time, to Alice Springs and from there to the remote cattle-breeding holding of her friends the Holts, a pioneering family whose ancestors had opened up vast, lonely grazing properties \u2013 about one beast per square mile \u2013 in the Northern Territory. On the first morning of her visit, Janet and Don Holt took her out to see 'Delny', a remote section of their property where their grandfather had started to build one of the first concrete houses in Australia. Perhaps she would like to buy Delny? The long-unfinished house was still there, baking in the unforgiving sun, surrounded by old farming machinery that was rusting away into the buffel grass. The desert light was clear and fierce. Germaine was intrigued. She could see the house's architectural potential \u2013 imagined open colonnades, breezeways, enclosed courtyards \u2013 but she sensed that Delny was a sad place.\n\nShe understood more when her hosts told her more about Delny's history. The Holt grandparents had abandoned their building project after their youngest child had died of gastroenteritis, and no family member had ever had the heart to continue. Besides, the house was within earshot of the branding yards. If she lived there she would hear the young animals' screams of pain as they were branded and castrated, and the agonised cries of their mothers, the wet cows who had been separated from their babies.\n\nShe could not live at Delny.\n\nBack in the Alice, the real estate agent directed her to a lucerne farm about one hour's drive from the city centre. On the morning of her first sighting of the property she made an impulsive offer of A$360,000, which the owners accepted on the understanding that she would lease back to them that part of the land where the lucerne was being farmed. She would make her home at the back of the property in the foothills of the James Range.\n\nThat same afternoon she had to fly back to Sydney and on to England, where she spent the next six months agonising over her hasty decision. In September, she was back in Alice Springs, ostensibly to settle the deal but actually to get out of it. Jane met her at the airport and agreed that there were better ways of spending $360,000.\n\nIn 2001, Germaine flew to Logan, Queensland, an unremarkable town situated between Brisbane and the Gold Coast, to speak at a fundraiser for a women's health centre. (The organisers had offered to pay her, but she refused.) After the event, she was telling people about her dream of buying an Australian property where she could store her archive.\n\n'What about Ken's place?' said someone.\n\n'You mean Ken's mother's place?' said someone else.\n\n'Yeah, Ken's really keen to sell that. It might be what you're looking for.'\n\nKen was Ken Piaggio, a psychotherapist who worked at the centre. He had bought the property to develop it, perhaps as an ecotourism lodge, to provide his mother with some extra income in her retirement, but that plan had failed. It was the old story, thought Germaine, the investment that never came good.\n\nWould she buy it? She thought not. For a start, it was too close to (less than forty kilometres away from) tawdry Surfers Paradise and the ugly suburban spread of the Gold Coast. The next morning, Ken and his wife, Jane-Frances, drove her up through the hills behind the Gold Coast for an inspection of the property. She was mostly silent as she observed the ecological devastation on either side of the road, barely managing to contain her rage at the degradation of a landscape infested with crowded tourist recreation areas, old towns tarted up as 'villages', a prison farm, car parks and public toilets.\n\nThey reached Cave Creek, the name of the area where the property was for sale, at noon. Turning left, they entered the Springbrook National Park. Germaine's hosts told her that this section of the park was home to the Natural Arch, a spectacular rock formation in the heart of the forest where water had cut through a ledge to form a deep chasm. The Natural Arch, Ken said, was now a major tourist attraction, reached by a path that led from a busy car park with toilets and an information kiosk. He remarked that busloads of tourists, many of them from Asia, came at night to see the glow-worms around the Natural Arch. 'So much for the tranquillity,' thought Germaine despairingly.\n\nThey continued driving for a short distance till they reached the land that was for sale. Entering the property through an open gate, they drove across a concrete causeway through an area where cattle were grazing. Ken stopped the car some distance short of a house with a utility truck parked outside. 'Don't want to disturb the tenant,' he said.\n\nThe sun caught them as they got out of the car, but Germaine felt more wet and sticky than hot. The warm day had changed from dry heat to humidity; as they inspected the property, she realised she was in the middle of an ancient rainforest. A poor, abused, exploited rainforest, tortured by grazing cattle and sad attempts to grow fruit; a rainforest with muster yards, a milking parlour and a hay shed; covered in imported weeds, creeping plant life and, in all probability, hordes of hostile animal life \u2013 but a rainforest nonetheless.\n\nThere was no way she was coming to live here! She would have to tell Ken she was not interested, but in the meantime she would accept his wife's suggestion that they have lunch at 'Angela's'. This turned out to be another tourist trap, a pseudo-farmhouse with a drive bordered by agapanthus, where Angela sold pies, snacks and 'forgetabilia'. 'This is Germaine,' said Ken to Angela.\n\n'I hope you're nothing to do with that bloody Germaine Greer,' she responded.\n\nOn the way back to Logan, no one said anything about the property. Embarrassed, Germaine politely told the Piaggios she would be in touch. At her hotel she made a split-second decision to drive rather than fly back to Sydney. The hotel receptionist ordered a hire car for her, which arrived promptly. By now it was late afternoon and she knew the bush would soon be coming alive as the mists rose from the gullies. Had she been fair to Ken's property? Its degradation was not of the forest's making. It was a sad, persecuted, but still most beautiful thing. She had not bargained on a rainforest, but she would need to see it one more time.\n\nBack into the hills she drove, steeling herself to stomach the ugliness along the way. Arriving at the property, she left the car under a stand of jacarandas then fought her way through dense undergrowth down towards the creek. The shadows were lengthening as she found a spot to sit down and contemplate the forest's edge. 'Half a million dollars for a run-down dairy farm. I didn't think so.'\n\nSoon it would be dark. She would need to get back to the hotel, for she must pack her bags and prepare to be on her way to Sydney, then home to her other life in England, her animals, her geese, her wood and garden.\n\nBut here and now the forest was brooding, vast and still; the pinkness of the sky was fading to a luminous green; she could just hear a distant thudding, a wallaby, probably. Then, suddenly, something small and alive stepped out from behind a native raspberry bush, directly in front of her, demanding to be noticed. It was a bird.\n\nHe was clad in a tabard of a yellow so intense that it seemed to burn, and a cap of the same yellow with a frosting of red on the crown. He walked up to within a few feet of me, fixed me with his round yellow eye and began to move his black rump rhythmically back and forth. There was no doubt about it. He was dancing.11\n\nAs she walked past the house on her way back to the car, she saw a man standing on the verandah. It was the tenant Ken had told her about. She called to him, 'Hi,' but deep within herself she was thinking, 'Sorry mate, I'm gunna buy your house.'12\n\n'You're losing it, girl,' said Jane when Germaine told her. 'Why would you buy something on the Gold Coast? You don't even play golf . . . Let me guess, horsiness, fake villages and avenues of Cocos Palms. The food and wine trail. Bad food and worse wine.'\n\n'No. It's rainforest. Or abandoned dairy farm. It depends which way you look at it.'\n\n'You're the only person I know who would spend two years shopping for desert and come back with rainforest. When am I going to see it?'\n\nOn Germaine's next visit to Australia she, Jane and Jane's husband Peter Burke flew to Coolangatta and then drove to the Lamington National Park, where they checked in at an expensive but disappointing 'rainforest retreat'. Next morning, they drove through rain to the Cave Creek property, where they made straight for Germaine's new house, an almost-derelict Queenslander built on columns of cement.13 Their key did not fit the flimsy door. Germaine was about to kick it down when Peter managed to break in through a rotting window. The house was filthy; decomposing pieces of cheap carpet littered the floor, spider webs obscured every window, internal walls were eaten away by termites and the toilet was unusable because the septic tank had a young Western red cedar growing out of it. But there was water. Jane produced her teapot, cups and fine tea (which accompanied her everywhere), and the three of them sat down to assess the situation. It was raining heavily outside. The tea was good, but everything else looked pretty dire.\n\nLater, they explored the forest, discovering as an added insult that part of it had been cleared to make a quarry. But soon Jane began to see its beauty and its potential. It could be saved, she said, but what a challenge! Rainforests were the most intricate systems on earth, and well-meaning people who tried to 'heal' them often did more damage than good. Her own knowledge of that field of botany was not extensive, and she knew of no 'experts' to advise them. Peter said that it 'could be worse'. It was not his problem.\n\nBefore she went back to England this time, Germaine assembled a 'workforce' to commence the task of rehabilitation. The leader was local botanist David Jinks. He put together a tree survey and told her that her land already had some of the highest biodiversity to be found anywhere outside the wet tropics. He also found her two young men, Simon and Will, who were experienced in regeneration work and highly knowledgeable about local plant life. Soon, two 'old-fashioned' botanists, Rob Price and Lui Weber, joined the team.\n\nOn her next visit to Cave Creek, Germaine's old friend Ann Polis flew up from Melbourne to keep her company.\n\n'What are you going to do about the cattle?' Ann wanted to know.\n\nGermaine said that she would have to get rid of them. They were fouling the creek and trampling the pythons. But there were two little steers, household pets, who came to her for treats. She felt so sad as she watched them being roughly corralled into a truck with the rest of the herd, to be driven away to a predictable fate.\n\n'You realise that you're steadily reducing the value of this real estate?' said Ann.\n\n'Mm.' replied Germaine.\n\nAnd then, again, she returned to England, expecting that the work would go on in her absence.\n\nOne evening in Cambridge, she was attending a formal college dinner when she got into an argument with a fellow diner, a person who was as opinionated as she was. Unwisely, as it turned out, he was trying to tell her that she should leave her forest alone and allow it to regenerate itself. She couldn't let him get away with that. 'You could be right, but I don't think so.' Then she launched into one of her diatribes about old-growth forests, lawyer and kangaroo vines that would go berserk if not controlled, malignant pioneer species, the proteoid roots of silky oak, Grevillea robusta \u2013 and more, much more, of the same.\n\nOn and on she talked until, looking down at her plate, she realised that the salmon in front of her was stone cold and that her adversary had long given up in boredom. Everyone else was politely waiting for her to finish her course so that the waiter could take her plate and they could get on with their pudding. But, oblivious of the fact that she may have ruined the evening for everyone, she was still locked into thoughts of her forest as she consumed her tarte au citron. All those vines! Morning glory, balloon, white passionfruit, glycine, siratro, and, worst of all, kudzu. They could all be exterminated, but think of the work and the expense!\n\nWhen the diners moved into the common room to take port, a woman approached Germaine and offered to make a donation to the Cave Creek project. 'You need to set up a charity,' she said. It was a new idea, but one to think about. The rainforest really belonged not to her but to itself, and restoring it was already a task of huge proportions. It was only the knowledge that she was not really alone \u2013 that all the organisms of the forest were working together \u2013 fungi, bacteria, reptiles, invertebrates, amphibians, birds, trees and a few humans \u2013 that kept her going. But how could she keep funding it?\n\nFrom 2003 onwards, she spent several months each year at Cave Creek. The 'workforce' that cared for the property in her absence were mostly efficient and competent, but they were very expensive. She expected them to look after the property as if it were their own but, similarly to the people who were supposed to care for The Mills in her absence, they did not always live up to those expectations. 'What a strange person he is,' she remarked of one helper, when, arriving at her house alone and exhausted after a long drive, she had to struggle with the faulty garage door lock and found the house wide open with all the lights on. 'Is it against his fucking religion to take care of someone else's property?'14\n\nShe loved to walk and work at Cave Creek, but her body was ageing and arthritis was taking its annoying toll, especially on her feet and knees. The landscape was unforgiving. While walking in the forest, she recorded her frustration on her tape-recorder as she kept falling over and getting lost in the dense scrub, 'hurting myself beyond bearing'. She was very tired. It was hard to get a foothold and her knees hurt 'disgracefully'. She fell on her hand and it started to turn black. 'This must be the most difficult place on earth to walk . . . Every single step is dangerous . . . for someone like me who can barely stagger along it's a nightmare.' And characteristically: 'I'm going to have to think of a way of dealing with it because it's my delight.'15\n\nThe heavy work of restoring the rainforest had to be left to the workforce, but Germaine, as well as directing activities, spent many hours weeding and clearing vines. She developed an encyclopaedic knowledge of rainforest flora and fauna, all of which she documented as meticulously and systematically as she had recorded her studies of art and literature. She noted the work of the great naturalists, especially pioneers of Australian botany like Joseph Banks and Robert Brown, but her main library, she believed, was the forest itself.\n\nAt Cave Creek, 'her' animals live in the wild, but she loves them as she has loved her dogs, geese and cats in England. She is particularly fond of the lizards, some of which, like the beautiful lace monitor, can grow up to seven feet in length. And she loves the snakes. Most of them are non-venomous pythons that come in all colours, from greenish-gold to black and red. There are hundreds of pythons at Cave Creek, and some live within feet of Germaine's house or on the verandah. She has seen them hunting in the walls for a way in, following the heat of the marsupial mice who occupy the wall cavities. Once she was woken up by a python who had found his way through the louvres into her bedroom. Drawn to the warmth of her body, he was arching himself, preparing for the strike.16\n\nThis sort of thing is not everyone's cup of tea, and she is hardly surprised when friends politely decline her invitations to visit. ('Ugh! I won't go there. All those spiders!' says one friend, an urban Sydneysider.)\n\nBy the time she had finished writing White Beech, Germaine had worked her way through the formalities of handing the rehabilitation project, which was now called the Cave Creek Rainforest Rehabilitation Scheme (CCRRS), over to a UK registered charity called 'Friends of Gondwana Rainforest'. The complicated legal processes of setting up the charity took time and caused much frustration, but, ultimately, she was at peace. At 74, she realised that she could love and care for the forest, but did not need to own it. She continued to play a powerful advisory role, and she was able to keep her house, but the day she gave away all her cash to the rainforest, she said, was the happiest day of her life.\n\nGermaine's first priority after signing the transfer of land documents for her property over to the charity was to discover the original Aboriginal owners of the land. She even hoped she might find some surviving tribe members to perform a welcoming ceremony for her. In turn, she said, she would be happy for them to use the land as they wished. But very soon she discovered that uncovering the truth about the ancient history of her land would be a much greater challenge than she had first thought. She made many inquiries of local Aboriginal groups and academics, but everything was complicated by competing claims of different clans and intricate land rights politics.\n\nShe was fascinated by the spectacular Natural Arch in the Springbrook National Park, adjacent to her property. Because of its striking natural beauty, she wondered whether Aboriginal people of old may have identified it as a place of special significance, a sacred site \u2013 maybe a place for women, or for initiation rites, but in any case, a secret site that could not be spoken of \u2013 but she could find nothing to corroborate her idea. All of her searches came to dead ends. Her visions of a welcoming ceremony began to fade.\n\nEventually, however, following the advice of Ann Polis, she discovered what she hoped was an answer in the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS) library at the National Museum of Australia complex in Canberra.17 In a PhD thesis written in 1959 by anthropologist Malcolm Calley, she read that the McPherson Range, where Cave Creek is situated, was the home of boiun (ogres) and derangan (ogresses). One ogre, Ililarng, was said to have no friends. The area was rugged and inhospitable. No tribe had ever occupied the mountains, and groups who were travelling to feasts and celebrations avoided them in favour of the beaches.\n\nWhen Ann called from Melbourne, Germaine felt confident enough to tell her that Cave Creek was the home of Ililarng, the friendless ogre who had long brooded over the rainforest. The surrounding Numinbah Valley was a place of demons. There would be no native title claim because no Aboriginal clans had ever lived there. When travelling up the coast and through and around the ancient rainforests, they had carefully avoided the area.18\n\nIn the 1990s, before she bought Cave Creek and before she had discovered its provenance, Germaine was exploring in her mind an idea \u2013 a big idea that reflected the seriousness of her commitment to the Aboriginal people of Australia. So important was this idea to her that when, in November 1999, she received a letter from the British Secretary for Appointments at 10 Downing Street informing her of the Prime Minister's wish to submit her name to the Queen to be awarded the high honour of Commander of the British Empire (CBE) in the New Year Honours of 2000, she 'regretfully' declined the offer. 'In case my refusal should seem ungracious,' she added:\n\nI should explain that I do all I can to promote the cause of aboriginal sovereignty, a cause now recognised in the international community as just. Because my acceptance of such an award might conceivably alienate me from the aboriginal peoples I am trying to help and the Australian public whose attitudes I am trying to influence, I have regretfully decided to forgo the outward sign of a recognition I appreciate greatly and that I would otherwise be proud to accept.19\n\nShe subsequently expressed her big idea in an essay called Whitefella Jump Up. One wonders if she knew, when she started, that she was stirring up another major storm of controversy for herself.\n\nHer idea, put simply, was that Australia is and has always been an Aboriginal nation. 'Try saying that to yourself,' she advised. 'Stand in front of the mirror and say \"I live in an Aboriginal country.\" Then say: \"I was born in an Aboriginal country therefore I must be considered Aboriginal.\"' If the original settlers had done this, she argued, if they had sought to assimilate with the inhabitants instead of assuming their own superiority, rampaging through the country, debasing and destroying all before them, the 'problem' of Aboriginality would never have arisen.\n\nThe ignorant presumed to teach the learned . . . the ignorant set about 'discovering' a country of which the learned carried immensely detailed maps in their heads. The ignorant didn't ask the learned which way to go, or how to survive on the track.20\n\nGreer's criticisms of white Australia in Whitefella Jump Up are excoriating, though not original. Predictably, she singles out the white males. Drunken, insensitive, emotionally paralysed, spiritually desolated, she says, they attack the land, divert the watercourses, build high-rise buildings on flood plains and, worst of all, 'create an endless nightmare of suburbia from which our kids try to escape by sticking needles in their arms'.21\n\nShe claims that her intentions in writing the essay are modest. She has no axes to grind, she is simply 'an elderly laywoman who is not in search of a job or a promotion'.22 She sincerely believes she has discovered a way out of the impasse and she wants to share her insights. People will say she has lost her marbles, but what's new? Her friends will simply see this, her latest preposterous suggestion, as yet another example of her 'ratbaggery'. Yet she will persevere, for she believes she is right.\n\nShe asks herself if she is qualified to write this book. What right has she, as a person who has spent more time away from Australia than in it, to offer such a simple solution to an immensely complex set of problems? (A good question.) As a child and young adult, she, like most Australians of her generation, had never seen an Aboriginal person. She recalled that when she first 'came up' to Melbourne University, she sat on a committee for Aboriginal scholarships, only to discover that there was not one eligible Aboriginal matriculand. (An interesting aside here: her use of the phrase 'came up' in this context betrays her expatriate orientation. Australians do not say 'came up' to university. To their ears it sounds pretentious.)23\n\nGreer's answer to her own question is that distance provided her with an international perspective. In the years between 1964 and 1971, when the thought of returning to Australia was, for personal reasons, painful to her, she had followed developments in other postcolonial countries, including South Africa. It was only when she was half a world away, she wrote, that she started to realise that Australia was also guilty of apartheid. How absurd was it for Australians to demonstrate against the Springbok tour of 1971 when they could not see what was happening in their own backyard?\n\nIndigenous issues had been in Greer's mind as long ago as 1972, when she had flown to Alice Springs with Aboriginal rights activist and poet Roberta 'Bobbi' Sykes.24 To her friend Louise Ferrier, who was living with Richard Neville in London at the time, she had written:\n\nTomorrow I go to Alice Springs with Bobby Stykes [sic]. We are going to live on a creek bed with about 800 abos, in order to find out what it's really like to be black and Australian. Me and my ulcer. What I shall eat I have no idea. There won't even be any fresh milk, let alone yoghurt, and the bland things I need to ease my pain.\n\nShe concluded: 'I'd better stop writing and prepare for a rollicking week in the humpies of Alice Springs.'25\n\nThis letter shows that, like most Australians at that time and later, Germaine Greer had a lot to learn about the First Peoples of Australia, but unlike most of them she was attempting to find out. Choosing to sleep at an Aboriginal camp on the dry bed of the Todd River, she and Sykes sat down every day with a group of Aboriginal people who became her friends. On her mattress, on the warm sand under the river gums, she listened to the stories they had to tell, realising that they had far more to teach her than she was then capable of learning. On the Saturday night of her necessarily brief visit, she was drinking with a group of these new friends in the beer garden of the Alice Springs hotel when the pub was raided by police. All of the Aboriginal people were arrested, and pleaded guilty to the charge of drunk and disorderly. Some received long custodial sentences. They had broken no law, she said.\n\nIn Whitefella Jump Up she goes on to describe how, on subsequent visits to Australia, she made a point of spending time with Aboriginal groups \u2013 the Yolngu people at Yirrkala, the Anmatyerre people at Utopia and Yuendumu, and urban Aboriginal people in Sydney and Melbourne. Over time, she said, she had spent more time with blackfellas than with her own family. In the 1980s, Kulin women from the Melbourne suburb of Fitzroy had offered to adopt her. She was taken aback. Would she be expected to isolate herself in some remote spot for a month or more and be 'painted, smoked or cut about?' she asked herself. But her fears were groundless. 'That's it,' said the Kulin women. 'It's done, we've adopted you!'26\n\nThen Germaine asked herself another very good question. She was able to spend no more than four months in Australia each year: her visits were taken up with a myriad of activities \u2013 managing her rainforest enterprise, catching up with friends and family, interacting with the curious media. Could her relatively brief encounters with people like the Kulin women and the friends she had made in Alice Springs be typical of the superficial relationships many white people \u2013 nurses, teachers, missionaries \u2013 had with Aboriginal people? It is a familiar scenario: these well-meaning people fly in, stay for a while and must then return to their own white lives and social institutions. Quoting anthropologist Gillian Cowlishaw, Greer recognised the 'shallowness' of such people's incorporation into the Aboriginal kinship systems: 'they would suddenly depart, often never to be heard of again. \"Must have gone back to 'im own country,\" people would say with a sense of betrayal or disappointment'.27\n\nIt is partly because of this \u2013 what many people, including Aboriginal people themselves, saw as her necessarily underdeveloped relationships with Indigenous people \u2013 that the publication of Germaine Greer's Whitefella Jump Up attracted so much criticism. This is particularly true of the response of the non-Indigenous writer Mary Ellen Jordan, who understood the complexities of white engagement with black cultures, having spent fourteen months living and working in Maningrida, an Aboriginal community in Arnhem Land. The main problem with Greer's essay, she believed (and there were many who agreed with her), was that it had very little to say about what taking on Aboriginality might mean in practice. The very concept of Aboriginality, as Greer herself acknowledged, had not even existed in the time before colonisation, when distinct Aboriginal groups did not think of themselves as a single collective society: even today, said Jordan, many Aboriginal people's identities were grounded not in 'Aboriginality', but in their own tribe or language group. Of what, exactly, were white people expected to think when they declared themselves to be 'Aboriginal'?\n\nJordan also believed that Greer had failed to fully understand the vast differences between white and black cultures. In Maningrida, she had learned that any coming together of black and white must involve changing cultures \u2013 an immensely difficult and confronting prospect. In the area of health care, for example, the urgency of saving lives, treating diseases, and preventing high rates of infant mortality surely had to be placed above considerations about the impact that white medicine was having on native culture.28\n\nPredictably, Germaine Greer's harsh criticisms of the early white settlers infuriated some of their descendants, including and especially Patsy Millett \u2013 the daughter of Dame Mary Durack, whose classic history of her pastoralist forbears, Kings in Grass Castles, chronicled the life and work of her grandfather, nineteenth-century Western Australian pastoral landowner and pioneer Patrick Durack. 'Mary Durack,' Greer wrote sneeringly in her essay, 'was descended from landless and illiterate peasants who attempted to improve their wretched situation by brewing poteen . . .' Patrick Durack, she opined, may have been less murderous of blacks than many of his ilk, but it had been written of him that he had once stamped a cattle brand on the rump of a slow-moving young Aboriginal male.29\n\nIt is hardly surprising that the present-day Duracks were incensed. After reading the essay, Millett launched into an ad hominem attack that Greer was hardly in a position to object to (because she often used the same tactic herself). Millett ridiculed Greer's proposition, that all Australians should embrace 'their' Aboriginality, as 'whimsical', claiming that it was an attention-grabbing 'stunt'.\n\nThe key to her long career as a hit and run artist upon our shores has been to ride in upon a white horse of indignation and\/or outrage at some aspect of Australian failure \u2013 pronounce upon it loudly and prominently via the media \u2013 and depart.30\n\nP.A. Durack Clancy, daughter of Dame Mary's sister Elizabeth Durack, added to her cousin's criticism.\n\nIt is possible to ignore the main thrust of Greer's essay \u2013 her admonition to whitefellas to become jumped-up born-again blackfellas. Let those who will, 'sit on the ground with [Greer] and think'. Others will give her nought out of ten for workable shortcuts; ten out of ten for media coverage.31\n\nGreer took this kind of vilification in her stride, although she protested that, far from seeking attention, she spent four months of every year in Australia trying to be so inconspicuous that nobody knew she was there. Far more important to her were the reactions of Aboriginal people. These were less censorious than the Duracks', but, on the whole, disappointingly lukewarm if not outright critical. She was saddened by the 'vein of nastiness' in the response of Professor Marcia Langton, long-time campaigner for Aboriginal rights and justice, claiming to be puzzled as to why Langton, a former friend, had referred to her as 'Dr Greer' when 'I am as much a professor as she is, and she knows it.'32\n\nLangton's essay in response to Whitefella Jump Up was well-considered and scholarly. Like Patsy Millett, she used the word 'whimsical' to describe Greer's big idea and, again like Millett, she expressed reservations \u2013 'a niggling doubt' \u2013 about the depth of expatriate Greer's engagement with her subject.33\n\nLangton also criticised Greer for her apparent ignorance of the enormous body of fictional and non-fictional writing, cinema and art on Indigenous topics over the past thirty years. 'Greer's heavy reliance on \"classical\" Australian literary fiction,' she said, 'is redolent of the late 1960s and the sense of protest at the colonial legacy of Australian literature.' Germaine was wounded at this attack on her scholarship, but she could not entirely refute it.\n\nThe greatest weakness of Greer's essay, according to Langton, was its 'zany disconnectedness'. She dismissed the notion that the Australian accent may have been formed from such influences as Aboriginal nannies teaching white children to speak as fanciful and eccentric, noting that Greer's ideas on the subject were unsupported by evidence and research.\n\nIn response to these and the many other criticisms, Greer pointed out that while her proposal was a necessary condition for Australia to achieve a new kind of 'cultural coherence' (aka nationhood), it was not sufficient.\n\nIn case I didn't make myself unmistakeably clear (and the title of the essay could mislead), let me restate it. Australia will never achieve political maturity unless and until it recognises its ineradicable Aboriginality.34\n\nEven Professor Langton, or so Professor Greer believed, was prepared to move into that 'imaginative space'.35\n\nAll gloves were off, however, when Langton wrote her response to Greer's 2008 essay On Rage.\n\nThe political context of On Rage was the introduction of the Australian federal government policy that is commonly called 'the Intervention'. This policy was developed in 2007 in response to mounting evidence of serious and mostly unreported physical and sexual abuse of women and children by men in some Aboriginal communities. The series of measures included the quarantining of a proportion of welfare benefits to Aboriginal people who were judged to be neglecting their children, changes to law enforcement and land tenure, and restrictions on alcohol. Many people, white and black, opposed the Intervention, and many others supported it. Controversy raged over its implementation, which was initially carried out by six hundred soldiers and detachments from the Australian Defence Force.\n\nThe essence of Greer's On Rage is that Aboriginal men are suffering from a kind of 'disabling rage' that is driving them to self- and socially destructive behaviour. They have lost their land, their women, their language. Alcohol abuse and violence are symptoms of the problem that is male rage engendered by centuries of white abuse, especially the rape and prostitution of Aboriginal women.\n\nMarcia Langton was one of several influential Aboriginal activists (Bess Price and Noel Pearson were others) who gave their qualified support to the Intervention. In an angry article that appeared in The Australian on 19 August 2008, Langton wrote that Greer should stop her attention-grabbing behaviour and cease 'baiting' Aboriginal people like herself. They were all much too busy working for the wellbeing of Indigenous people, she said, to be bothered by such 'distractions'.\n\nLangton then launched a personal attack on Greer, accusing her of racism, attention-seeking and poor scholarship. Greer's 'little treatise', she said, ignored the growing body of critical literature on the real causes of Indigenous disadvantage. She agreed with Noel Pearson and Dr Hannah McGlade (a Nyungar human rights lawyer and academic) that the perpetrators of abuse should take responsibility for their own behaviour: 'We are not in the mood for failed leftist excuses for the rising levels of homicide, femicide, and suicide.' Germaine Greer was 'just plain wrong'. Aboriginal people of the future who had been victims of unchecked violence against women and children would wonder why a feminist of Greer's stature would defend the men who had destroyed their innocence.36\n\nGermaine Greer's personal commitment to the welfare and advancement of Indigenous Australians is beyond question. Her archive presents much evidence of this, but it also includes revelations about her frustration with some Aboriginal groups that, albeit with excellent reasons, have not been willing to work with her. For example: in July 2007, she received an email from Scottish filmmaker Roy Colquhoun, who proposed making a video that would 'put the case for the Aborigine [sic] peoples to a wider audience'. He hoped that Greer would lend her support. She replied:\n\nWhen I have been involved in projects such as you suggest, the most difficult part has been the attitude of the aboriginal people themselves. They don't want their situation exposed or publicised. These are peoples with a culture of reticence and avoidance.\n\nMore to the point, perhaps, is that there is a self-elected caste of official spokespersons who claim the sole right to funding and support. Even when I have been making programs about wildflowers I've had to deal with these people disrupting what I was doing and claiming that I had co-opted the Aboriginals' story, culture, whatever. Subsidised koori quisling 'koori' media exist and nothing much can be accomplished without their active participation, which means, in effect, that nothing can be accomplished.\n\nYou will not be helped by my giving public support, I'm afraid.37\n\nFor one who claimed to avoid public attention, Germaine Greer managed to grab a disproportionate amount of it in the first decade and a half of the twenty-first century. Increasingly, she upset the LGBTIQ community with her unpopular views on transgender issues. As well as upsetting black and white people with her views on Aboriginality, she got herself accused of paedophilia; she insulted prominent public individuals like Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge (too thin), Mother Teresa (why did she travel first-class?), First Lady Michelle Obama (big head and poor dress sense at her husband's inauguration) and the late Steve Irwin (he had it coming to him). She professed to be unconcerned (and probably was) when, shortly after Steve Irwin's death, his portrait replaced hers in the Australian National Portrait Gallery.\n\nIn 2005, she made what was arguably the worst and certainly the most embarrassing mistake of her public life when she appeared on Celebrity Big Brother series three.\n\nUntil Sylvester Stallone's mother Jackie (born 1921) joined the 'housemates' in the Big Brother house on the fifth day, Germaine and John McCririck, a racing commentator who became known in the house for his uncouth behaviour and attitudes, were the oldest of the nine participants by at least twenty years, and the age gap showed. The younger people were totally underwhelmed by Professor Greer, who was simply 'Germaine'. They tolerated her as one politely tolerates an out-of-touch old aunt, but kept her low in the pecking order and complained about her habit of 'going on and on'. In a challenge styled around a medieval court, in which everyone appeared in costume and all decisions were made by Lisa l'Anson, who played the part of 'queen', Germaine was allotted the demeaning role of cook. In her serving-wench costume \u2013 long white full-skirted dress with dark jerkin, apron and cap \u2013 she looked old and dumpy. Grumpy, as well, especially when her housemates would not let her have her own way.\n\nShe stood it until the sixth day, when she demanded to leave the Big Brother house. Subsequently, writing in the News Review of 16 January 2005, she said that she had tried to make a stand against the bullying culture that had developed in the house, but the other housemates had not gone along with her. She had expected 'Big Brother' to be a bully, she wrote, but what she did not expect was that the show's producers would deliberately create appalling conditions \u2013 lack of palatable food, a filthy kitchen and refrigerator, dirty, shared towels and bathrobes \u2013 that would reduce the housemates to such a state of abjection that they would turn upon each other.\n\nWhy did she do it? In an article for the Daily Telegraph, she claimed that she wanted to experience something of the life her mother was leading in her nursing home in Australia. One angry reader responded, 'Perhaps some of the \"lump of cash\" you have been paid for your few days in the Big Brother house could go towards a better home for your mother.'\n\nGreer replied, 'As an Australian war-widow, my mother has the best accommodation and health care that money can buy as of right . . . my mother has a great deal more money than I do . . .'38\n\nShe was certainly stretching the truth in making this claim, but she was probably referring only to her own disposable income. At this time her Australian rainforest was turning into a money pit: she had to purchase expensive equipment and pay the salaries of five staff. The \u00a340,000 she had been offered to appear in Celebrity Big Brother would be a big help.\n\nGermaine's supporters praised her for exposing the reality show as not just tasteless, but culturally and morally disgraceful. Other people thought she had simply embarrassed herself, and to some, this gaffe was just another indication that she and her opinions were becoming pass\u00e9.\n\nIn 2003, she was labelled a paedophile following the publication of her book The Beautiful Boy. By then she had turned 64, and women of that age are not expected to enjoy looking at the bodies of young boys.\n\nThe Beautiful Boy (in some editions simply The Boy) is a history of boys in art. Its more than two hundred sumptuously presented photos and discussions depict boys from ancient Greek times to the present \u2013 Eros, Cupid, Elvis Presley, Boy George, Kurt Cobain. Unsurprisingly (or perhaps intentionally?) the book was controversial, but Greer took accusations of paedophilia in her stride. The Boy was full of pictures of 'ravishing' pubescent boys with hairless chests, wide-apart legs and slim waists, she declared in the Daily Telegraph. The blurb on the back cover proclaimed that she wanted to reclaim for women the right to appreciate the short-lived beauty of boys. Asked on Canadian television to explain the attraction, she replied, 'Sperm that runs like tap-water will do.'39\n\nShe laughed when the Australian television interviewer Andrew Denton put it to her that what she had written in The Boy was 'creepy \u2013 no different to an old man staring after a young girl and lusting after them'. What was wrong about that, she wanted to know: 'Of course the old men leaning on their sticks would appreciate the figure of a beautiful young woman walking down the street. How, and why, would anyone want to stop the old bastards? Part of the joy of life is admiring beautiful things.'40\n\nGreer was used to receiving hate mail, but she received some particularly unpleasant letters after The Boy was published. She was accused of being a paedophile, a dirty old woman, a sexual deviant. As usual, there were demands for her to go back to where she came from. 'What is it with all you whining Aussies?' \u2013 'Piss off!' \u2013 'Join the Luftwaffe, you are ugly enough.' \u2013 'Have you thought about euthanasia?' \u2013 'You are a vitriolic, bitter and twisted being.' One woman warned her to check her computer files before the police could get to them. 'Did you ever stop to consider the boy's mother?' she railed. 'You have a serious problem and should seek help,' advised another correspondent. Many people sent her poems and articles, most of them racist, pornographic, misogynist, anti-migration, some containing various interpretations of religious tracts. 'No reply whatsoever,' she directed her assistant, Carol Horne, who filtered the correspondence.41\n\nMore sophisticated readers castigated Greer for the sloppiness of her arguments. No sooner had the reader managed to swallow one outrageous assertion in The Boy, complained writer and historian Ian Britain, than they became aware of the extent to which it contradicted the claims that preceded it. Never mind that her case studies in 'boyhood' included a picture of a Frank Sinatra, who was well into his twenties at the time, and of Kurt Cobain with a five o'clock shadow: her definition of 'boyhood' was of a male who was old enough to be capable of sexual response, but not old enough to shave. But then again, she stated elsewhere in the book, the reader must understand that boyhood actually starts as soon as a baby is weaned.\n\n'Silly reader,' says Britain, 'for daring to crave consistency.'42\n\nSome of the apparent inconsistency in Greer's writing can be put down to sloppy thinking, as in the examples above, but more often it stems from her old libertarian roots, her refusal to align her views with any set of fixed beliefs or principles, and her preparedness to change her mind if she thinks a new idea is an improvement on its predecessors. Inconsistent she may well be, but no one can accuse her of being politically correct for the sake of it.\n\nExamples of her unwillingness to conform to any credo \u2013 even feminism \u2013 abound: they include her criticisms of Michelle Obama and Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard, both of whom she castigated for their appearance and fashion sense. The dress Michelle wore on her husband's election night, she said, was 'a travesty', 'a lava-lamp look'. Just as well her low-heeled shoes disguised the fact that her head was bigger than her husband's. But as for that black cardigan . . .!43\n\nWas Michelle's cardigan a bigger fashion gaffe than Julia Gillard's jackets? Probably not, for Greer's dressmaking eye picked up that the jackets were cut too narrow, causing a horizontal crease to appear across the Prime Minister's backside. 'What I want her to do is get rid of those bloody jackets,' she protested. 'You've got a big arse, Julia, just get on with it!'44\n\nInsensitive as remarks like these were, she was generally able to laugh them off so that most people did not take her too seriously, but her insulting comments about transgender people were another matter. 'Just because you lop off your penis and then wear a dress doesn't make you a fucking woman,' she proclaimed in her interview with the comedic actor Rebecca Root, who is a trans woman, in October 2015. 'I've asked my doctor to give me long ears and liver spots and I'm going to wear a brown coat but that won't turn me into a fucking cocker spaniel.' She understood, she said, that some people were born intersex and that they deserved support, but that was not the same thing as a man deciding to become a woman. She particularly objected to postoperative transsexuals: 'A man who gets his dick chopped off is actually inflicting an extraordinary act of violence on himself.'\n\nMs Root said she was 'beeping gobsmacked' by Greer's comments. 'This is something that I would equate with the worst of the gutter press,' she said, 'not from somebody of such academic standing; a woman who should know better . . . her comments are grossly offensive, quite ludicrous and very, very out of date and out of line with the current way that the trans community is progressing . . . She is a negative force. She's like the worst baddie in your classic panto.'45\n\nBy 2015 the age of social media had well and truly dawned, and some who agreed with Root used it to express their outrage. 'Christ, Germaine Greer does just come across as a rancid old bigot on trans comments,' pretty well summed up the popular view.46\n\nIf the opinions of the twittersphere were mostly not on her side, she could take comfort from the fact that some people of her own generation agreed with her: 'the far Left is so conservative, paradoxically, inflexible, doctrinaire and humourless,' commented her old friend Barry Humphries.\n\nYou can't describe the world as it is any more . . . I agree with Germaine! You're a mutilated man, that's all . . . Self-mutilation, what's all this carry on? Caitlyn Jenner \u2013 what a publicity-seeking ratbag. It's all given the stamp \u2013 not of respectability, but authenticity or something. If you criticise anything you're racist or sexist or homophobic.47\n\nHumphries was referring to the immediate cause of the 2015 controversy \u2013 Greer's accusation that television personality Caitlyn (formerly Bruce) Jenner had stolen the limelight from other female members of her family, the Kardashians, by being prepared to accept Glamour magazine's decision to give Jenner its Woman of the Year award. 'I think misogyny plays a really big part in this,' said Greer, in an interview with the BBC's Newsnight, 'that a man who goes to these lengths to become a woman will be a better woman than someone who is just born a woman.' When the interviewer suggested that she was being hurtful to transgender women she rolled her eyes. 'People are being hurtful to me all the time,' she exclaimed.\n\nTry being an old woman. For goodness sake, people get hurt all the time. I'm not about to walk on eggshells . . . I'm not saying that people should not be allowed to go through that procedure. What I'm saying is it doesn't make them a woman. It happens to be an opinion. It's not a prohibition.48\n\nGreer had been scheduled to speak at Cardiff University on 18 November 2015, in a lecture titled 'Women and Power: The lessons of the 20th century', but in mid-October, Rachael Melhuish, women's officer at the university's students' union, circulated an online petition for the lecture to be cancelled. 'While debate in a University should be encouraged,' it stated, 'hosting a speaker with such problematic and hateful views towards marginalised and vulnerable groups is dangerous.'49\n\nGreer's memories of being 'glitter-bombed' for her views on transgender people in Wellington, New Zealand, in 2012 were still fresh. 'I've had things thrown at me, I've been accused of things I have never done or said, people seem to have no concern about evidence or, indeed, even about libel,' she told BBC News.\n\nDespite the petition attracting more than a thousand signatures, Cardiff University refused to cancel the lecture. She appreciated the university's adherence to principles of free speech and academic freedom, but she baulked at exposing herself to violent abuse. 'I'm getting a bit old for all this. I'm 76. I don't want to go down there and be screamed at and have things thrown at me,' she said. 'Bugger it, it's not all that interesting or rewarding.'50\n10\n\nFull circle\n\nThe wheel is come full circle . . .\n\nWilliam Shakespeare, King Lear\n\nTuesday, 10 January 2017\n\nWho is that sitting at the L'Or\u00e9al cosmetics counter in the David Jones store? Yes, it's Cheryl \u2013 Cheryl Davis. She has come to buy a new moisturiser advertised by film star Helen Mirren, the elderly but still beautiful 'face of L'Or\u00e9al'. It is now forty-five years since Cheryl first read The Female Eunuch, the book that changed her life. She is 78, the same age as Germaine Greer, and now more happily single than ever. Her arthritis, like Germaine's, sometimes keeps her awake at night, but she is generally healthy and, again like Germaine, she enjoys her garden and has many friends.\n\nThe L'Or\u00e9al 'beauty consultant', Mary-Jane, is an attractive, professionally made-up 55-year-old. She's talking to Cheryl about Germaine Greer.\n\n'I just love her!' she says. 'I first read her book when I was twelve. I was a boarder in a convent in Sydney. I decided to take \"Germaine\" as my confirmation name. The nuns thought it was after a saint, but it wasn't, it was after Germaine Greer.\n\n'But I was disappointed,' she continues, 'when I heard what she said the other day about Princess Diana.'\n\n'What was that?' asks Cheryl. 'I must have missed it.'\n\nMary-Jane giggles; she doesn't want to shock the old lady.\n\n'Go on!' says Cheryl impatiently.\n\n'Well \u2013 she said Princess Diana would be 56 now and no one would be interested in her. She also . . . um . . . said that Diana was the worst fuck in the country. I thought it wasn't very nice of her to say that.'\n\n'She does tend to say rather outrageous things sometimes,' says Cheryl carefully.\n\n'Maybe she's just trying to get attention. You know \u2013 make everyone sit up and listen to her. In case they forget who she is.'\n\nAt that moment, a trim, young beauty consultant comes across from the Dior counter.\n\n'Hi, Li. We're just talking about Germaine Greer.'\n\nLi Chen looks nonplussed.\n\n'Who is he?' she asks politely.\n\nWednesday, 8 March 2017\n\nGermaine Greer has come to the University of Melbourne for an International Women's Day event called 'Germaine Greer meets the archivists'.\n\nShe is to speak to an audience of five hundred people in the Kathleen Fitzpatrick Theatre. Four hundred people have had to be turned away for lack of space in the theatre.\n\nI, the teller of Germaine Greer's story, am sitting about five rows from the front, where she is seated next to the University Librarian, Philip Kent. I have seen her walk into the theatre \u2013 not as tall as I expected, broader, but quite stylishly dressed in black and white. She limps a bit, but carries herself well, exuding a kind of bored but wary confidence.\n\nJulie Willis, Professor and Dean of the Faculty of Architecture, is the first speaker. After the acknowledgement of country, she draws the audience's attention to the person after whom the theatre is named \u2013 Kathleen Fitzpatrick, Associate Professor of History at the university in the 1950s and 1960s \u2013 noting that, like Germaine Greer, Fitzpatrick is an alumna of the University of Melbourne and that she was a prominent feminist of her time. Rachel then beams up onto the big screen at the front of the theatre the old student record cards of the two women; the audience laughs.\n\nThe similarities between the two women are striking, but I reflect on some significant differences: Fitzpatrick was acquainted with the student Germaine but, like her close friend and neighbour Professor Keith Macartney, she would have found the undergraduate's behaviour 'most ir-reg-ular'. Like Germaine, Fitzpatrick was a star performer in a lecture theatre, but unlike her she was 'ladylike' almost to the point of caricature.\n\nIn The Female Eunuch, Greer targeted the shortcomings of the first wave of feminism, chief of which was women's failure to recognise that external factors alone were not responsible for their plight, for they themselves had been conditioned ('castrated') into subservience. Seen in this light, Kathleen Fitzpatrick, staunch feminist of the first wave, is a sad example of Greer's argument. She excelled in her field and she fought tirelessly for women's rights, but she did not think she was good enough to be a full professor when she was offered it, and she constantly deferred to men, most notably, and sometimes pathetically, to her male superior, Professor Max Crawford. Throughout her life, though she would surely have read The Female Eunuch, she remained deaf to Greer's credo that women should seek the causes of their oppression within themselves, and should reassess their own feelings, attitudes and beliefs before they tried to change the world.\n\nSoon it is Germaine Greer's turn to speak. She surveys her audience with a practised eye: 'Well,' she says, when the long round of applause finally stops, 'I'm feeling a bit breathless, really. I had no idea I was so interesting.'\n\nShe speaks without notes. The archive is not about her, she insists, and she dislikes the kinds of images that have been created of her, especially by the Australian media. Recalling how, in 1971, she was presented to the public as 'a kind of mythical beast that was returning from abroad', she tells her audience that she does not see herself as a celebrity; she has never had a dress made for a celebrity event and she has never appeared on a red carpet. (Has she forgotten Celebrity Big Brother? I wonder. Better to not go there.)\n\nNor has she ever, ever, ever had a celebrity lifestyle. 'My life was work and teaching and gardening and animals and all those things.'\n\nShe hammers her point: 'I'm not interested . . . I'm bored. I don't want to explain myself . . . I don't know why I am the way I am . . . I don't think it's interesting.'\n\nShe has enjoyed acting, especially at Cambridge in the Footlights years, she tells her audience, because this gave her access to 'a different kind of life from academe, for which I do not have enormous respect'. Similarly, her appearances on Nice Time were 'about being very, very silly and having fun'.\n\nShe has been angered by 'fictionalised' accounts of her life (Christine Wallace scores a mention), but not especially offended (not quite true, I think, remembering her fury at the Wallace biography), because she is used to being offended \u2013 she is offended every day. As an 'old-fashioned libertarian' she is opposed to censorship. She is resigned to the fact that people will want to write about her. 'I want to hear your reality. I'll fight it, if I must, but I won't ban it, and I won't silence you . . .' (Well, that's reassuring, but she won't hear my reality because she has vowed never to read anything about herself.)\n\nShe goes on to make the point that Australian people do not know her as well as the English who read her newspaper columns 'every week' and watch her on television. However, she acknowledges that she could only have achieved as much as she has by being an Australian: 'it's one reason for my thinking in my own way . . . and to follow what I would have thought of as common sense'.\n\nThen she turns to the many letters, now preserved in her archive, that are from ordinary people. Admitting that she herself is quite 'glib', she says she has been deeply touched by the sincerity and lack of glibness in these people. (I think of the letter from the French girl and of the pages-long letters from desperate women, trapped in dreadful marriages, who tell her of their deepest fears and terrors. And I recall her genuine attempts to offer them useful advice. And her frustration as she realises that they will probably not take it. She is right when she says that, in this respect, the archive is 'a portrait of a moment, of a time'.)\n\nNow it is Christopher's turn. Referring to an image displayed on the screen of the ginger cat settled comfortably on Germaine's shoulder, she says, 'He travelled on my shoulder nearly all the time . . . When I had visitors in the house, he hated it . . . He would sit in a cupboard . . .'\n\nThen back to the archive. It is a 'big lump of hard evidence about the years when I have been on earth . . .' She doesn't know everything there is to know about those years, she declares modestly, and those who might cast her in the drama would present her as a celebrity, or a self-promoter or a self-publicist \u2013 or something. (No, I wouldn't. Or at least not as only those things.) Again, she asserts people's right to do so. She doesn't care, or so she says.\n\nAnd then some advice to the people who will access her archive \u2013 'just keep on plugging, on doing what it is that you do, and just hanging on to your own rag of self-belief . . . Use [the archive] for whatever journey of discovery you're on . . . be somebody who is earnest in your search for truth . . . be hard on yourself.' Shades of the convent. This could be Sister Bernadine, my old history teacher, speaking. I feel quite inspired.\n\nFinally, it is time for questions. The first is about her views on LGBTIQ issues and policies. She responds that this has been a problem for her ever since she wrote about it in The Whole Woman. But she asserts that she does not 'buy' the notions of gender that are being supported by, among others, academe. 'If four-year-old children are telling their parents that they are in need of gender reassignment, something has gone completely crazily wrong,' she continues. And those members of the medical establishment who destroy perfectly healthy tissue and force people into a lifetime of corrective surgical interventions need to examine their ethics. Then she offers her example of the fifty-year-old truck driver with four children who 'thinks he was a girl' but is probably mistaken. We have met him before.\n\nIn her reply to the next question, which asks her to consider her 'favourite' and 'least favourite' things that she has included in the archive, she slides into a discussion of domestic violence and starts talking about her mother. '[W]hen I used to talk about domestic violence, I had no idea that my mother was abusing my father . . . she kicked him downstairs and beat him with the broomstick and shut him out of his house and starved him.' The audience is looking uncomfortable but she goes on to say that her mother had 'high-level Asperger's' and was 'demented'. She, Germaine, should be able to forgive her mother but she can never forgive her, not because of what she did to her but because of the way her father was made to suffer. Her own experiences were dreadful: 'I was only little when my father wasn't there, in the war, and there was nothing to protect me from her wild paroxysms of rage . . .'\n\nThe next questioner asks Germaine for her views on what it means to be human and to have a spiritual relationship with religion. I am thinking that this is all getting very heavy. Germaine must think so too, because she decides to lighten up.\n\n'If God exists, I am against him. I do not want to go to heaven, I do not want to live with God. I have lived with people who thought they were God, and I definitely don't want to be anywhere near the real McCoy.'\n\nLaughter: the mood relaxes. The scene is set for her to deliver the most serious message of the night. She is asked what she thinks has changed and not changed for women in the forty-seven years since she wrote The Female Eunuch.\n\n'What everybody has accepted is the idea of equality feminism,' she begins. 'As far as I'm concerned, equality is a profoundly conservative aim. It will change nothing.'\n\nShe goes on to consider the state of the world today in which, she believes, women and children have become casualties in places like Syria where the rich make war on the poor. 'Women are drawing level with men in this profoundly destructive world,' she declares, but as far as she is concerned, they are doing it the wrong way. 'We are getting nowhere.'\n\n'If we're going to change things, I think we're going to have to start creating a women's polity that is strong, that has its own ways of operating, that makes contact with civilians in places like Syria, that actually begins to show a network that challenges the right of destructive nations to bomb the crap out of people they don't agree with . . . If what happens when women join the army is that they discover that the army is no place for a sane human being, then they've learned something.'\n\nFor some reason at this point I am reminded of groups of women I have met in the Catholic Church \u2013 modern-day nuns, some of them \u2013 who are standing up to the bishops and the hierarchy, attempting in their own ways to shift the values of that obdurate monolith towards compassion and tolerance. A women's polity. This is a big idea, a good idea, and an impossible idea \u2013 just like the idea of liberating 'castrated' women was perceived to be in 1970.\n\nQuestion time is finished and the bouquets are being presented. Too late to ask the question I want to ask. 'Why don't you write a book about the power of women's polity to change the world, Germaine?'\n\nFriday, 15 September 2017\n\nI am seated at my usual desk in the Reading Room of the Baillieu Library, third floor, at the University of Melbourne, where I have been working for the past five months on the massive Germaine Greer Archive. Greer herself has said that mastering it all would take at least five years, and I cannot claim to have done that. However, with the help of the University of Melbourne Archives' impressive online 'finding aids', and supportive UMA staff, I am confident of having discovered most of the information that is relevant to my project. Others will delve deeper into her contributions to the fields of Shakespearean scholarship, feminist studies, women's literature and the rest. Almost every aspect of her work deserves a book, or at the very least a PhD thesis, in its own right.\n\nThe weather is grey and dismal. When I look outside, I can see, through intermittent rain, the clock tower of the Old Arts building. I reflect on Germaine Greer's love of libraries, a love that I share, and of the many hours we both spent in this library five decades ago. Trees now partly obscure the view of the lawns below, where a few students scurry in search of shelter, but this view of her alma mater and mine would still be as familiar to her as it is to me.\n\nToday, I am working on Box 7 of the Print series, which, in separate acid-free manila folders, contains what seem to be hundreds of drafts, proofs and published copies of Germaine Greer's opinion pieces and other contributions to various newspapers and magazines. Attached to some drafts is her correspondence with editors, publishers and her agent.\n\nHer subjects range from Shakespeare to First Ladies to footballers who refuse to share the joys of childbirth with their wives. Some pieces are obviously well-researched and informative. Others are sketchy. Some simply recycle views she has expressed many times before. She is paid around \u00a31 a word for each article. 'No fee no work', she writes at the bottom of some requests for gratis contributions. Her assistant will translate this into a polite refusal: 'Professor Greer regrets . . .'\n\nMaybe it's the weather, but I am finding myself irritated by much of Greer's correspondence with editors. She is incredibly rude: 'In view of the fact that you had CLEAN copy in three forms, fax, hard copy and diskette,' she writes to Peter Forbes, editor of Poetry Review (undated), 'the sloppiness of this setting is a DISGRACE.'1 And to Georgina Goodman at Elle magazine: 'This is ON CONDITION that I see what you propose to print. One of the first laws of journalism is that free copy is treated like garbage, which is why I do my best not to supply it. SEND THE PROOFS TO ME FOR CORRECTION, PLEASE. YOU MAY SHORTEN BUT NOT REWRITE.'2\n\nDoes she really have to be so ill-mannered? So arrogant?\n\nI move on to the several drafts of a feature article she wrote for the New Yorker, provisionally titled 'Singin' in the Rain', about The Three Tenors, in which she describes her experience of seeing and hearing them in rehearsal and actual performance at Wembley Stadium in July 1996. Senior editor Bill Buford, who is a good friend of Germaine, comments on an early draft: 'It's wonderful to read about the tenors and their muted bitchiness, and their antics on stage and only slowly, bit by bit, discover that the thing is sordid,' he writes tactfully, before advising her to make some alterations and cuts. Drafts then returned to her contain editorial changes and some rewriting. She is furious. 'You want a completely different piece and then you will cut it to a third of its length. Fuck off!' And later, when rewritten sections include some grammar mistakes of which she herself would never be guilty: 'Look at the mess you made of the paragraph beginning . . . Don't you know that such tinkering is vandalism?' And 'I will not allow rubbish written by you to appear with my by-line. Already paragraphs have been rewritten as gibberish which I have to waste time trying to restore . . . You fuck the whole thing up with blind abandon . . .'\n\nIn the end, she will not allow this piece to be published. 'I have saved it from your arrogance and carelessness . . .' The reluctance to go to print was mutual, for the New Yorker editors were also concerned about possible libel implications.3\n\nI am feeling a certain empathy with her, however, as I return to the article itself. It is a good read and she wins me over in the final section in which she describes her impressions of the Three Tenors concert and her efforts to get to Wembley from Essex. She tells of how she decided to share one of the two free tickets she was given with Charlie, her 75-year-old gardener, who was on his fifth hip and third knee replacement. The weather was vile and she feared that the show might be cancelled, but nothing would deter the shining-eyed Charlie. They drove off in the rain to take up their \u00a3350 seats \u2013 better ones, she noted with some satisfaction, than those occupied by Prime Minister and Mrs Major and the Duchess of Kent. She found it all quite excruciating: the stadium was more suited to a football game than an operatic concert, there were acoustic difficulties, the rain clouds lowered and the tenors sang \u2013 badly \u2013 the hackneyed songs her father used to sing in his bath. But dear Charlie sat through it all entranced, motionless on his orange cushion, his lips parted. At the end, he was so cold she could hardly lift him out of his seat to get him back to Stump Cross. 'That was a wonderful experience,' was all he had to say.4\n\nMy irritation has dissipated before I come to the end of this story. Rude, arrogant, insensitive as some of her correspondence with publishers shows her to be, Germaine Greer has her priorities right. This time, anyway.\n\nTuesday, 9 January 2018\n\nGermaine Greer is in town to be part of the Sydney Festival, and so am I. On a wonderfully balmy summer evening, my husband and I stroll along the promenade to the Drama Theatre at the Sydney Opera House to watch a performance of The Town Hall Affair, a play performed by New York experimental theatre company the Wooster Group. Two days earlier, on Sunday, 7 January 2018, Germaine was present at the opening performance of the play.\n\nThe Town Hall Affair is a recreation of the original 'Town Bloody Hall' debate of 1971. The actors in the play, as in the film, are seated at a long table. At stage right is a lectern, and behind the actors is a screen on which grainy episodes of D.A. Pennebaker's film are shown.\n\nThe play is technically brilliant, as the actors speak the words of their on-screen characters in perfect sync with the characters in the film, but I, who am familiar with Town Bloody Hall and its origins, am disappointed to find the production unnecessarily complicated and even confusing. Some people I speak with during the interval who know nothing of the play's provenance comment that they 'can't make it out'. Better to just watch the original again, I think. (I hear later that Germaine has made a similar comment.)\n\nThe Town Hall Affair is timely in that it gives cause for reflection about current developments in the circumstances of women's lives. As reporter Joyce Morgan commented in her lukewarm review of the play in the Sydney Morning Herald, the 'obnoxious' Mailer would not now get away with his gross comments. But how much, she added, have things really changed?\n\nNow crass and demeaning comments are uttered by a pussy-grabbing President. As writer Susan Faludi recently noted, the patriarchy is bigger than the patriarch.5\n\nIn October 2017, just three months before the start of the Sydney Festival, movie producer Harvey Weinstein became the first of many men charged and humiliated for their crimes of predatory sexual behaviour against women. The arrival of the #MeToo movement launched a new wave of feminist protest across the world.\n\n'For too long,' proclaimed Oprah Winfrey, speaking out for #MeToo at the glittering 2018 Golden Globes Awards ceremony, 'women have not been heard or believed if they dare speak their truth to the power of those men. But their time is up. Their time is up.'\n\nIn Sydney, on 9 January, the day after the Golden Globes, Germaine Greer spoke at the Opera House. Her audience was excited. Was she about to follow Oprah's rallying call? Everyone was looking to her, one of the most renowned elders of the feminist movement, to guide them through what was shaping up to be a major shift in the history of feminism. But Germaine is rarely inclined to follow the rallying calls of others. Disappointingly for her audience, she made no reference to the #MeToo movement in her speech. Her performance was something of a fizzer. She even had a seniors moment in which she forgot the name of Emily Pankhurst.\n\nSunday, 21 January 2018\n\nLess than two weeks after her appearances at the Sydney Festival, Germaine Greer is back in London. On the evening of 21 January, she attends a gala event that is being held in her honour at Australia House. She has been declared UK Australian of the Year. 'I'm thinking of myself as representative of all the old ladies who've never been given anything,' she says, after graciously accepting the medal from High Commissioner Alexander Downer.\n\nLater in the evening, she clarifies her opinion of #MeToo in an interview with Fairfax media. Acknowledging that the issue is complex, she reminds her interviewer that she has always denounced men in positions of power who sexually harass relatively powerless women. 'What makes it different is when the man has economic power, as Harvey Weinstein has. But if you spread your legs because he said \"be nice to me and I'll give you a job in a movie\" then I'm afraid that's tantamount to consent, and it's too late now to start whingeing about that.'6\n\nShe has done it again \u2013 infuriated the sisterhood and perhaps even more disturbingly, been hailed by conservative commentators like Rita Panahi of the Melbourne tabloid the Herald Sun, who accused feminists of conducting a 'witchhunt' against her. 'We have become so accustomed to such demented histrionics from some of the soundest members of the sisterhood that Greer, by comparison, seems sane and measured.'7\n\nGermaine would probably not mind being described as a witch, but 'sane and measured'? I don't think so. Not even at 79.\n\nFebruary 2018\n\nI have almost come to the end of my three-year project to research and tell the story of the life of Germaine Greer. It is time to answer the two questions I asked at the beginning: How significant was Germaine Greer's contribution to second-wave feminism?, and Who is she, really?\n\nI have formed my impressions of Greer's contributions to second-wave feminism in light of feminist literature and on the basis of her life story as it emerges from her archive, her own writing and journalism, her theatre, television and radio performances, and the verbal and written impressions of people who have known her and her work. I have been highly cognisant of the context \u2013 the history of her time, which has also been my own time, on this earth.\n\nIndubitably, life has changed for women in the half century since the thirty-year-old Germaine Greer wrote The Female Eunuch. The changes began before Greer's book with the advent of second-wave feminism in the early 1960s. In 1962, Betty Friedan's book The Feminine Mystique identified the pain and frustration of women, especially middle-class, college-educated women, who were feeling trapped inside their homes, their lives reduced to servitude \u2013 cleaning, cooking, nappy-changing and submitting to the sexual and other demands of their men. The Feminine Mystique sold three million copies in its first three years of publication. Other books followed, women began to organise, the pill was developed and the rest, as they say, is history.\n\nBut what of Germaine Greer's contribution?\n\nI believe that Greer's contributions to second-wave feminism have been significant in three main ways. First, she has consistently challenged not only the accepted beliefs of her time and place in the world, she has also challenged their challengers. Back in the days of the Royal George, she learned how to subject every idea and argument to the most rigorous, energetic, critical scrutiny, and she has never forgotten those lessons or abandoned their principles. She is fearless in asserting what she sees to be the truth about women and their lives, even if every feminist in the world should want to disagree with her.\n\nHer second major contribution has been to encourage women to look hard within themselves, as individuals and as half of the human race, to discover their essential femaleness, to assert their own values and order their own lives. It is not helpful, she suggests, to blame men or their institutions for the female condition, and pointless for them to try to join the brotherhood, for the brotherhood will never accept them. Firmly, she steers women away from the illusion that by becoming like men they will be their 'equals'. Male values, she argues, are already destroying not only women, but people all over the world. Surely women should be opposing those values and asserting their own?\n\nHer third major contribution to second-wave feminism is more about the 'how' than the 'what'. Thousands of feminist tracts are now in circulation, and some may well be more erudite than hers, but many will be read only by professional academics or students in the field of women's studies. They are none the less influential for that but the work of Germaine Greer is different in that, as her many letters from 'ordinary' people attest, she has managed to reach out and personally touch the lives of women, and some men, everywhere. She is a performer, a superb communicator, and highly skilled in promoting herself and her ideas. As a writer, she is raunchy, engaging and amusing. Almost alone among feminist writers, she has the capacity to illumine her books with the products of her scholarship that include individual, often fascinating stories about women's struggles, disasters and achievements over hundreds of years. Her knowledge of classical European literature, especially of women's writing and Shakespeare, has given her a wonderful understanding of how and why human beings behave as they do (who better than Shakespeare in this respect?).\n\nAnd so to the second question: 'Who is Germaine Greer, really?' In the early stages of writing, I gave my book the provisional title 'Behind the Mask', as I was working on an assumption that behind the public face of Germaine Greer was a 'real' woman whose personal history, once uncovered, would shed light on her massive contribution to second-wave feminism. However, as I read what she had written at different stages of her life, watched her many 'performances' in film clips of various kinds, listened to her speaking in video and audio recordings, discovered what others had said and written about her and, finally, delved into her archive, I arrived at the conclusion that the public Germaine Greer is also, pretty much, herself. There is no mask. What you see is what you get.\n\nIn 1989, the psychologist Anthony Clare put it to Germaine in a radio interview that, more than anyone he had ever interviewed, she had already discussed in public almost everything about herself \u2013 things that people, in England at least, would describe as 'personal intimacies'. He knew about her abortions, her miscarriages, her infertility, how she lost her virginity. (Greer, interrupting: 'He married one of my greatest friends.') She seemed surprised at Clare's observations, but replied that she didn't believe people are like onions \u2013 that if you keep peeling back layers you will eventually find a tiny 'real' person at the core. There was no frightened little Germaine Greer hiding at her core, waiting to be discovered, she declared \u2013 she was all of the layers, and forming a picture of her, the person, would be more about piecing the layers together than digging into the onion.8\n\nThis book has attempted to do just that \u2013 piece the layers of Greer's life together, from her early childhood and years at school and university; through her unconventional years as a groupie and hippie in the counterculture of 1960s London; her dramatic success as an international celebrity after the publication of The Female Eunuch; and her enduring fame as a writer, performer, journalist and public intellectual. Then, finally, how she came to terms with some of the painful memories of her childhood and learned to understand and bond with the land of her birth.\n\nAt every stage of her life, Germaine Greer, large in stature, huge in intellect, personality and soul, has towered over her contemporaries. Her capacity for physical as well as intellectual work is amazing.\n\nYet, there is something in her or not in her that sets her apart. Her behaviour can be as puzzling as it is annoying. Despite her singular intelligence, she can be as inconsistent and irrational as she is insulting. Her apparent lack of emotional empathy is strangely at odds with her literary sensibility. It is amazing to see how a bruising clumsiness in personal relations sits beside the almost pitch-perfect refinement of the best of her writing. A complete contradiction.\n\nFeminist publisher Carmen Callil and writer Fay Weldon, among others, believe that she is a genius, and I tend to agree. She exhibits the hallmarks of genius: unique, prescient, transformative intuitions; formidable intellect; tremendous energy; and the capacity to produce new knowledge that changes the lives of millions.\n\nGermaine Greer, a genius? Many will scoff at the idea, but it does suggest an explanation, if not an excuse, for the worst of her behaviour: geniuses think and behave differently from the rest of us, their conduct may seem odd and they can be difficult \u2013 sometimes impossible \u2013 to understand and get along with. In entertaining the proposition that Greer may be a genius, we can discover a reason for the contradictions in her behaviour, an answer to the perplexing question as to why this brilliant woman has felt driven, publicly and privately, to unleash such floods of irrationality and vituperation on so many well-intentioned people.\n\nChristine Wallace concluded that Greer's angry response to Untamed Shrew was fuelled by intellectual insecurity \u2013 fear that her body of work would not stand up to scrutiny. Justified or not, such fears could bring about a kind of 'insanity' that would block out her critical faculties. Madness. Not uncommon in a genius. Like Virginia Woolf and Vincent van Gogh, Germaine Greer is often accused of being at least batty, if not actually barking mad. She evens admits to it herself.\n\nCarmen Callil suspects that the price Germaine Greer pays for her genius is her essential aloneness. This may well be true in the sense that she does not have time for the minutiae upon which close friendships are formed. David Plante speculated that she kept busy to avoid loneliness, but it could be the other way around \u2013 her compulsion to work, to create, to produce, whether it is about Shakespeare, femaleness or a new garden, is stronger and more important to her than human contact. Like an eagle, she flies high and free, not so much avoiding the kinds of intimate relationships that might bring her down as being incapable of bending herself to them.\n\nYet all kinds of people seek her companionship and her archive is full of 'thank you' letters from grateful guests who have driven away from dinners and lunches at her homes replete with memories of her excellent food, wine and company. She enjoys nothing more than a good 'knees-up' with Margaret Fink and their friends, who love her as much for her eccentricity as for her capacity to enjoy herself. Like her school companions of long ago, people are bewildered and hurt when she turns on them in spite, they fear her ire, but they forgive her, for they believe that spitefulness is not her intention, however much her words and actions may suggest otherwise. 'Oh Germaine!' they sigh, resignedly.\n\nGermaine makes no apologies. She says that she is used to being offended \u2013 people offend her every day \u2013 and she jokes about all the hate mail she has consigned to her 'nutters' drawer'. Her implication is that if crazy people who have never read or understood her choose to judge her on the basis of a few shocking comments and the caricatures the press like to make of her, that is their problem, not hers. 'I don't care,' she says.\n\nBut she does care. How could she not? Does she forget that in other accounts she has told us different stories \u2013 stories of sleepless nights, depression, anguish at lost opportunities and lost loves? She is not insensitive \u2013 quite the contrary \u2013 although she does avoid introspection. Like her father, she knows how to push concerned people away from her with a glib remark, defuse awkward situations with humour and stay on the surface where it is safe.\n\nNone of her environments has been able to contain her \u2013 not Mentone, not academe, not Australia, not even the English and European centres of Western culture that are her lodestar. Now, as she approaches her eightieth birthday, she who has been described as 'a force of nature' has chosen to live much of her life in the most elemental of all environments, a primeval rainforest. She will not attempt to control the forest and it will never contain her.\n\nAnd so, for now, I leave her at Cave Creek, a lone figure as always, struggling through the undergrowth, tearing out the alien weeds and vines or resting by the creek at dusk, listening to the sounds of the forest, watching her dancing 'birdie'.\n\nHas she found peace? Has she stopped fighting? I cannot ask her these questions, but I can imagine her answer: 'Not bloody likely!'\nAcknowledgements\n\nIn acknowledging the people who have supported me over the four years I have been engaged in writing this book, I would like to begin with Teresa Pitt and Professor Stuart Macintyre, who have patiently read each chapter, draft by draft, and given valuable, professional advice. I also wish to acknowledge the support of my agent, Sheila Drummond, and Penguin Random House publisher Meredith Curnow, for their encouragement and friendship. Thank you also to editor Kathryn Knight for her patience, helpful suggestions and professional skill in editing the manuscript, and to proofreader Bronwyn Sweeney.\n\nOne of the pleasures of writing biography is meeting people who have been associated with the subject. This has been more difficult for this biography than for most. Greer's friends, family and acquaintances are aware of her unwillingness to contribute to anything that is written about her. In deference to her feelings, many of them, understandably, do not wish to make public comments about their association with her. However, I thank the following people for sharing some memories and experiences: Kerry Doquile, Star of the Sea archivist; Jan Coleman, Theo Kinnaird and Marian Shanahan, who were close friends of Greer at Star of the Sea convent; Sister Felicity Cordner and Sister Diana Gabel, nuns of the Presentation Order who knew Germaine at school and were friends of the nuns who taught her; Jenny Wilkinson and June O'Keeffe, who remember Germaine from those days; Phillip Frazer, publisher, who shared his house with Greer in Paddington, Sydney; Professor Stephen Knight, who worked with her at the University of Sydney; Richard Walsh, publisher and a founding editor of Oz magazine and of Nation Review in Australia, who knew her in Sydney and London; Fay Weldon, well-known feminist author, who describes herself as Greer's colleague; Dame Carmen Callil, publisher and founding editor of Virago Press; and historian and writer John Thompson. I also wish to thank Christine Wallace and Ian Britain, who shared with me their experiences and recollections of writing about her.\n\nThank you, too, to Sue Fairbanks, archivist, Jane Beattie, assistant archivist, and Dr Rachel Buchanan, curator of the Germaine Greer Archive at the University of Melbourne, who have been most generous in giving their support and professional assistance to the project, together with members of the 'Greer team' Sarah Brown, Lachlan Glanville and Kate Hodgetts. In particular, I want to thank Chen Chen, Leanne McCredden and Carl Temple, staff of the Baillieu Library Reading Room, for their unfailingly cheerful professional assistance on a day-to-day basis.\nNotes\n\nIntroduction\n\n1 Germaine Greer has disagreed with women when they attempted to tell her that she had changed their lives. People changed their own lives, she said. She had only helped them along.\n\n2 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00032, Unit 1, Germaine Greer interviewed by Dr Anthony Clare for the BBC Radio 4 program In the Psychiatrist's Chair, 23 August 1989\n\n1 Who does she think she is?\n\n1 The dirty and dilapidated Spencer Street station, the construction of which began in 1859, had many modifications over the years and was totally rebuilt in 2006, when it was renamed Southern Cross station.\n\n2 Greer, Germaine, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, New York, 1989 (originally published in Great Britain by Hamish Hamilton Ltd, London, 1989), p. 8\n\n3 Wallace, Christine, Untamed Shrew, Richard Cohen Books, London, 2000, p. 7\n\n4 'Turn' was an expression in common use at this time. The Catholic Church strongly discouraged marriage between Catholics and non-Catholics, and intending non-Catholic spouses were persuaded to become Catholic \u2013 to 'turn' \u2013 before the wedding ceremony. If they refused, the ceremony would have to be conducted in a vestry, out of sight of the congregation, rather than in front of the main altar. A condition of the marriage, imposed by the Church, was that any children of the union should be brought up as Catholics.\n\n5 Greer, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, p. 10\n\n6 ibid., p. 298\n\n7 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 3\n\n8 Sir Frederick Lloyd Dumas (1891\u20131973) was the managing editor of the Adelaide Advertiser, a conservative newspaper that was taken over in 1929 by a syndicate headed by (Sir) Keith Murdoch, who was at that time managing director of the Melbourne Herald. Dumas, who claimed Huguenot ancestry, was a prominent and widely respected leader in the newspaper industry. His papers are in the National Library of Australia Archives. From the Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 14, Melbourne University Publishing, 1996\n\n9 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 233\n\n10 Long, Gavin, The Six Years War: A concise history of Australia in the 1939\u201345 war, Australian War Memorial and the Australian Government Publishing Service, Canberra, 1973, pp. 29\u201330\n\n11 At the outbreak of war, to overcome Britain's shortage of trained air personnel, it was decided that fifty thousand men from the dominions would be trained annually as aircrew under the Empire Air Training Scheme. Each dominion conducted its own initial training and further training took place in Canada and Rhodesia.\n\n12 Greer, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, p. 145\n\n13 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 6\n\n14 ibid., pp. 10\u201311\n\n15 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00032, Unit 1, Germaine Greer interviewed by Dr Anthony Clare for the BBC Radio 4 program In the Psychiatrist's Chair, 23 August 1989\n\n16 Greer, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, p. 8\n\n17 ibid., p. 310. Kilbreda is a Catholic college in the suburb of Mentone, Melbourne. When Jane Greer attended the school, it was staffed by nuns of the Mercy Order. It is now staffed mainly by lay teachers.\n\n18 ibid., p. 303\n\n19 Greer, Germaine, in The Pleasure of Reading, Antonia Fraser (ed.), Bloomsbury, London, 1992, pp. 55\u20138\n\n20 ibid.\n\n21 Greer, Germaine, 'Lessons in the convent', Music, November (special edition, guest editor Simon Callow), vol. 5, no. 6, Warner Music, London, 1996\n\n22 This information and a copy of a school report which listed the subjects taught at Holy Redeemer Diocesan School, Ripponlea, were provided by Jenny Wilkinson (nee McLeod), a former pupil, in Melbourne, 2016.\n\n23 Conversation between Elizabeth Kleinhenz and Jenny Wilkinson, Ballarat, December 2016\n\n24 Greer, Germaine, 'My convent career', Reader's Digest, March 1985, pp. 33\u20136\n\n25 Bartholomew Augustine Santamaria, known as 'B.A. Santamaria' or 'Santa', was a prominent Australian Catholic political activist. A close friend of the Catholic Archbishop of Melbourne Daniel Mannix, he was a powerful intellectual influence in the formation of the anti-communist Democratic Labor Party.\n\n26 Greer, 'My convent career'\n\n27 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 20\n\n28 Dabbs, Jennifer, Beyond Redemption, McPhee Gribble, Ringwood, 1989, p. 139\n\n29 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 22\n\n30 ibid., p. 20\n\n31 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00183, Unit 23, Interview with Susan Coffey, mature age student studying at Queen Mary & Westfield College, for her final year English project 'Thirty Years of Feminism via Germaine Greer', 13 April 2000\n\n32 Dreifus, Claudia, 'The life and loves of Germaine Greer', Forum: The international journal of human relations, vol. 7, no. 5, January 1975, p. 14. Copy of article held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.001.00235, Unit 17\n\n33 Greer, Germaine, 'Star girl', Sunday Times, 3 April 1983, p. 34\n\n34 ibid.\n\n35 ibid.\n\n36 ibid.\n\n37 Waby, Heather, 'The class of 54', Sunday Sun-Herald Magazine, 6 December 1998, pp. 16\u201319\n\n38 ibid.\n\n39 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.0244, Unit 30, McCarthy (Easton), Michaela, letter to Germaine Greer, 15 January 1975\n\n40 Recollections of June O'Keeffe, younger sister of Margaret, as told to Elizabeth Kleinhenz. June later became a Head Prefect of Star of the Sea.\n\n41 Fallowell, Duncan, 20th Century Characters, Vintage, London, 1994, p. 13\n\n42 Greer, Germaine, in There's Something About a Convent Girl, Jackie Bennett and Rosemary Forgan (eds), Virago Press, London, 1991, p. 87\n\n43 Greer, 'My Convent Career'\n\n44 Fallowell, 20th Century Characters, p. 14\n\n45 Wright, Claudia, 'The young Germaine: An incredible girl, says the nun who taught her', The Herald, Melbourne, 3 June 1971, p. 21. Claudia Wright (1934\u20132005) was a colourful Australian print journalist, radio and television presenter, and controversial talkback host in the 1960s, 1970s and early 1980s. A feisty, committed feminist and fighter for social justice, she was tragically affected by early-onset Alzheimer's disease and suffered a slow decline over more than twenty years until her death. Germaine Greer was a lifelong friend, and godmother to one of her children. She gave the eulogy at Wright's memorial service in February 2005.\n\n46 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00013, Unit 2, Sister Eymard of the Presentation Order, letter to Germaine Greer\n\n47 Greer, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, p. 288\n\n48 ibid., p. 234\n\n49 ibid., p. 235\n\n50 ibid., p. 234\n\n51 ibid., p. 193\n\n52 ibid., p. 141\n\n53 ibid., p. 192\n\n54 ibid., p. 9\n\n2 A difficult girl\n\n1 Wallace, Christine, Untamed Shrew, Richard Cohen Books, London, 2000, p. 29\n\n2 ibid., p. 30\n\n3 ibid.\n\n4 At the time it was more usual for future teachers to be given a studentship for the three-year Pass degree. Only the highest achievers were financed to take the four-year Honours degree. The University of Melbourne was the only university in the state of Victoria at this time.\n\n5 As told to the author by the mother of a student at Melbourne University circa 1960.\n\n6 Studentships had long been available for 'pre-service' primary school teachers who were trained in the Education Department\u2013owned and controlled Primary Teachers Training Colleges, where students wore blazers and were trained to 'serve'. Secondary studentships became available when the growing numbers of high schools being built in the 1950s led to a shortage of trained secondary teachers.\n\n7 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 29\n\n8 Farrago, 8 May 1956, p. 9; 5 June 1956, p. 3; and 25 September 1956, p. 2\n\n9 Recollections of Jan Coleman, who was a friend and classmate of Germaine at Star of the Sea and at the University of Melbourne.\n\n10 The 'Caf' is the student cafeteria in the union building at the University of Melbourne. Today there are many other eating venues on campus, but in 1956 it was a centre of student social life.\n\n11 Greer, Germaine, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, Ballantine Books, New York, 1989\n\n12 Packer, Clyde, No Return Ticket: Clyde Packer interviews nine famous Australian expatriates, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1984, pp. 89\u201390\n\n13 ibid., p. 38\n\n14 Watson, Don, Brian Fitzpatrick: A radical life, Hale & Iremonger, Sydney, 1979, p. 32\n\n15 Humphries, Barry, More Please, Penguin, Ringwood, 1992, p. 149\n\n16 Koval, Ramona, Interview with Germaine Greer, One to One, ABC Enterprises, Sydney, 1992\n\n17 Greer, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, p. 198\n\n18 Dreifus, Claudia, 'The life and loves of Germaine Greer', Forum: The international journal of human relations, January 1975, pp. 12\u201319. Copy of article held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.001.00235, Unit 17\n\n19 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00032, Unit 1, Germaine Greer interviewed by Dr Anthony Clare for the BBC Radio 4 program In the Psychiatrist's Chair, 23 August 1989\n\n20 Greer, Germaine, in Packer, No Return Ticket, pp. 90\u20133\n\n21 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 46\n\n22 ibid., p. 47\n\n23 Q&A, ABC Television, broadcast 16 April 2016\n\n24 Rickard, John, 'Macartney, Keith Lamont (1903\u20131971)', Australian Dictionary of Biography, National Centre of Biography, Australian National University, 2000, http:\/\/adb.anu.edu.au\/biography\/macartney-keith-lamont-10894\/text19343, accessed 20 July 2018\n\n25 Review of Peter Blazey's autobiography Screw Loose, The Age, 9 August 1997\n\n26 Jacobson, Howard, 'Howard Jacobson on being taught by FR Leavis', The Telegraph, www.telegraph.co.uk\/culture\/books\/8466388\/Howard-Jacobson-on-being-taught-by-FRLeavis.html, accessed 19 June 2018\n\n27 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 53\n\n28 Greer, Germaine, 'Why the young need their freedom', in Rusbridger, Alan (ed.), The Guardian Year 1994, Fourth Estate, London, 1994, pp. 204\u20136\n\n29 Greer, Germaine, 'Why the young need their single ticket to freedom', The Guardian, 24 January 1994, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print Journalism, 2014.0046.00364, Unit 6\n\n30 Packer, No Return Ticket, pp. 94\u20135\n\n31 'Greer on revolution; Germaine on love: A discussion between Germaine Greer, Ian Turner and Chris Hector recorded in Melbourne, February 1972. Published in Overland 50\/51, Autumn 1972', 25 January 2002, www.takver.com\/history\/sydney\/greer1972.htm, accessed 20 July 2018\n\n32 Recollection of Jan Coleman, schoolfriend of Germaine Greer at Star of the Sea, whose family were friends and neighbours of the Greer family. Germaine felt bad about leaving her father to pay her bond. As soon as she could, using some of her earnings from Nice Time, she sent Reg a cheque in repayment of the debt.\n\n33 Humphries, More Please, p. 169\n\n34 James, Clive, Unreliable Memoirs, WW Norton and Company, New York, 2009, pp. 176\u20137\n\n35 ibid.\n\n36 Coombs, Anne, Sex and Anarchy: The life and death of the Sydney Push, Penguin Books, Ringwood, Victoria, 1996, p. 38\n\n37 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00236, Unit 17, Germaine Greer, 'Notes for a presentation on BBC Radio 4', May 1975\n\n38 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00067, Unit 2, Roelof Smilde interviewed for The Coming Out Show. The Coming Out Show was a radio program broadcast by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, first broadcast on ABC Radio 2 in 1975, the United Nations\u2013designated International Women's Year.\n\n39 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00100, Unit 3, Diary 1997, audio diary recorded while walking her dogs on the fields near her home\n\n40 Franklin, James, 'The Push and critical drinkers', in Corrupting the Youth: A history of Australian philosophy, Macleay Press, Sydney, 2003, pp. 157\u201378\n\n41 ibid.\n\n42 Coombs, Sex and Anarchy, pp. 135\u20136\n\n43 Franklin, 'The Push and critical drinkers'\n\n44 Conversation between Elizabeth Kleinhenz and a former Push member and friend of Germaine's who wishes to remain anonymous, 2017\n\n45 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 72\n\n46 Coombs, Sex and Anarchy, p. 213\n\n47 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00100, Unit 3, Diary 1997, audio diary recorded while walking her dogs on the fields near her home. Reflecting on Coombs's book, she said dismissively that Coombs's claim was 'wildly inaccurate'. Like some other ideas in Sex and Anarchy, she thought it was probably traceable to Darcy Waters. She decided that she would annotate her copy of the book and place it in her archive, which she did.\n\n48 Greer, Germaine, 'Germaine Greer's Sydney', in McGreevey, John (ed.), Cities, Lester & Orpen Dennys, Toronto, 1981, p. 158\n\n49 ibid., p. 153\n\n50 Coombs, Sex and Anarchy, p. 203\n\n51 Greer, 'Germaine Greer's Sydney', p. 165\n\n52 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 58\n\n53 Leser, David, 'Her wild ways', Australian Women's Weekly, January 2007, pp. 64\u201370\n\n54 Conversation between Richard Walsh and Elizabeth Kleinhenz, Sydney, 14 February 2017\n\n55 Cooper, Jilly, article in Sunday Times, 7 September 1980, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.01065, Unit 119, correspondence between Germaine Greer and Claudia Wright\n\n56 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00236, Unit 17, Germaine Greer, 'Notes for a presentation on BBC Radio 4', May 1975\n\n57 From Manfred, a dramatic poem by Lord Byron written in 1816\u20131817\n\n58 Byron, George Gordon, Don Juan, Canto 61\n\n59 Conversation between Elizabeth Kleinhenz, Professor Stephen Knight and Professor Stuart Macintyre, May 2016\n\n3 Changing skies\n\n1 Greer, Germaine, 'On the end of the Commonwealth', The Independent magazine, July 1989, p. 14\n\n2 Britain, Ian, Once an Australian: Journeys with Barry Humphries, Clive James, Germaine Greer and Robert Hughes, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1997, p. 128\n\n3 Packer, Clyde, No Return Ticket: Clyde Packer interviews nine famous Australian expatriates, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1984, p. 95\n\n4 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00183, Unit 23, Interview with Susan Coffey, mature age student studying at Queen Mary & Westfield College, for her final year English project 'Thirty Years of Feminism via Germaine Greer', 13 April 2000\n\n5 Nicolson, Nigel, Long Life, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, London, 1997, p. 66\n\n6 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch first draft, 'Summary', http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42290, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n7 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch first draft, 'Dedication', http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42290, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n8 ibid.\n\n9 James, Clive, May Week Was in June, Picador, London, 2008, p. 18\n\n10 ibid., p. 15\n\n11 ibid., p. 18\n\n12 ibid., p. 145\n\n13 ibid.\n\n14 Buchanan, Rachel, 'Friday essay: How Shakespeare helped shape Germaine Greer's feminist masterpiece', The Conversation, 27 May 2016, https:\/\/theconversation.com\/friday-essay-how-shakespeare-helped-shape-germaine-greers-feminist-masterpiece-59880, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n15 ibid.\n\n16 ibid.\n\n17 Wallace, Christine, Untamed Shrew, Richard Cohen Books, London, 2000, p. 166\n\n18 Shakespeare, William, The Taming of the Shrew, Act 3, Scene 2\n\n19 ibid., Act 5, Scene 2\n\n20 The letter is reproduced in full in Henderson, Archibald, George Bernard Shaw, His Life and Works: A critical biography, Steward & Kidd, Cincinnati, 1911, p. 196\n\n21 Detmer, Emily, 'Civilizing subordination: Domestic violence and The Taming of the Shrew', Shakespeare Quarterly, vol. 48, no. 3 (Autumn 1997), pp. 273\u2013294\n\n22 ibid.\n\n23 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00129, Unit 10, Greer, Germaine, 'The Ethic of Love and Marriage in Shakespeare's Early Comedies', pp. 191\u20132\n\n24 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, pp. 121\u20132\n\n25 Greer, Germaine, The Female Eunuch, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, New York, 2008, p. 234\n\n26 Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 122\n\n27 Greer, Germane, The Madwoman's Underclothes: Essays and occasional writings 1968\u20131985, Pan Books, London, 1986, p. xiii\n\n28 Greer, Germaine, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, Ballantine Books, New York, 1989, p. 152\n\n29 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch first draft, 'Dedication', http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42290, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n30 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, Address given by Germaine Greer at the Thanksgiving Service for Gay Clifford at Holy Trinity Church, Minchinhampton, Gloucestershire, 6 August 1998\n\n31 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, Correspondence from and relating to Gay Clifford\n\n32 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, draft of introduction by Greer to a book of poetry by Gay Clifford\n\n33 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audiovisual recordings featuring Greer's television and radio appearances, 2014.0041.0001, 'Milk \u2013 Nice Time: Outtakes, featuring Germaine Greer and Kenny Everett, 1969', https:\/\/vimeo.com\/201973004, accessed 20 June 2016\n\n34 Grant, Linda, 'In defence of the 1970s: Germaine Greer was there as well as Stuart Hall', The Guardian, 6 May 2013, www.theguardian.com\/commentisfree\/2013\/may\/06\/in-defence-of-the-1970s, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n35 ibid.\n\n36 Thea Porter (1927\u20132000) was a designer of expensive bohemian-chic fashion in 1970s London. Her clients included Pink Floyd, the Beatles, Elizabeth Taylor and Princess Margaret.\n\n37 Farren, Mick, Give the Anarchist a Cigarette, Jonathan Cape, London, 2001, pp. 218\u201321\n\n38 'Philippe Mora', Milesago, www.milesago.com\/people\/mora-philippe.htm, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n39 Trinca, Helen, 'The sum of OZ magazine', The Australian, 23 March 2013, www.theaustralian.com.au\/arts\/review\/the-sum-of-oz-magazine\/news-story\/1c5c6d21a634174619f30afb1167591b, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n40 Neville, Richard, Hippie Hippie Shake, Duckworth Overlook, London, 2009, p. 71\n\n41 ibid., p. 151\n\n42 ibid., p. 121\n\n43 Greer, Germaine, 'In bed with the English', Oz, no. 1, January 1967, pp. 16, 18\n\n44 Neville, Hippie Hippie Shake, pp. 145\u20137\n\n45 Greer, Germaine, 'The Universal Tonguebath', Oz, no. 19, March 1969, pp. 31\u20133, 47\n\n46 Greer in POL magazine, quoted in Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 145\n\n47 Du Feu, Paul, Let's Hear It for the Long-Legged Women, Angus & Robertson, London, 1973, p. 118ff.\n\n48 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00148, Unit 10, Diary 1968\n\n49 Du Feu, Let's Hear It for the Long-Legged Women, p. 118\n\n50 Greer, Germaine, Country Notebook, 'Drunken ex-husband', The Telegraph, 29 May 2004, www.telegraph.co.uk\/gardening\/3320728\/Country-notebook-drunken-ex-husband.html, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n51 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch first draft, http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42290, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n52 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00309, Unit 38, letter from Germaine Greer to Kate Garrett, 18 January 1973\n\n53 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Jim Haynes to Germaine Greer, 31 January 1973\n\n54 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00173, Unit 13, Greer, Germaine, writing as 'Earth Rose' in Suck, no. 1, August 1970\n\n55 Greer, The Madwoman's Underclothes, p. 74\n\n56 Wolfe, Tom, 'The \"Me\" decade and the third great awakening', New York, 23 August 1976, http:\/\/nymag.com\/news\/features\/45938\/index10.html, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n57 ibid.\n\n58 Neville, Hippie Hippie Shake, p. 239\n\n59 ibid., p. 241\n\n60 Bacon, Wendy, 'Sex and censorship', Anarchism in Australia, first published in Lot's Wife, 18 March 1971, www.takver.com\/history\/aia\/aia00033.htm, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n4 The Female Eunuch\n\n1 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch editorial, 'TFE Editorial', handwritten notes dated 21 April 1969, http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42289, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n2 Friedan, Betty, The Feminine Mystique, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 1963\n\n3 Pearson, Richard, 'Segregationist governor Ross Barnett dies at 89', Washington Post, 8 November 1987, www.washingtonpost.com\/archive\/local\/1987\/11\/08\/segregationist-governor-ross-barnett-dies-at-89\/7760cd0c-8272-440f-a980-79383300d7a8, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n4 Friedan, Betty, 'Statement of Purpose', National Organization for Women, https:\/\/now.org\/about\/history\/statement-of-purpose, accessed 21 June 2018\n\n5 Milliken, Robert, 'Lillian and Germaine in New York', Inside Story, 20 January 2011, http:\/\/insidestory.org.au\/lillian-and-germaine-in-new-york, accessed 22 May 2018\n\n6 Rock Encyclopedia is dedicated to Leon and Margaret Fink.\n\n7 Milliken, 'Lillian and Germaine in New York'\n\n8 ibid.\n\n9 Roxon, Lillian, 'Germaine Greer, that female phenomenon', Woman's Day, 24 May 1971, p. 5\n\n10 Milliken, Robert, Mother of Rock, Black Inc., Melbourne, 2010, p. 290\n\n11 Sewall-Ruskin, Yvonne, High on Rebellion: Inside the underground at Max's Kansas City, Thunder's Mouth Press, New York, 1998, digital edition\n\n12 Milliken, 'Lillian and Germaine in New York'\n\n13 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch first draft, 'Dedication', http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42290, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n14 Greer, Germaine, The Female Eunuch, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, New York, 2008, p. v\n\n15 Milliken, 'Lillian and Germaine in New York'\n\n16 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch editorial, 'TFE Editorial', handwritten notes dated 21 April 1969, http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42289, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n17 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch editorial, typewritten notes, http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42289, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n18 ibid.\n\n19 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch editorial, draft 'Synopsis, http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42289, accessed 31 August 2018. Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman were flamboyant American social activists and icons of the counterculture in the 1960s and 1970s. Together they founded the Youth International Party, which made extensive use of the media to spread their ideas. Both were charged with 'un-American' crimes and both had voluminous FBI files that ran to thousands of pages.\n\n20 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch first draft, 'Dedication', p. 2, http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42290, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n21 ibid., pp. 1\u20132\n\n22 ibid.\n\n23 ibid., pp. 12\u201313\n\n24 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00492, Unit 60, letter from Germaine Greer to Gershon Legman, fan and author, May 1972\n\n25 Weinraub, Judith, 'Germaine Greer \u2013 Opinions that may shock the faithful', New York Times, 22 March 1971, www.nytimes.com\/1971\/03\/22\/archives\/germaine-greer-opinions-that-may-shock-the-faithful.html, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n26 Greer, Germaine, 'Summary', The Female Eunuch, Harper Perennial, New York, 2008, pp. 13\u201326\n\n27 ibid.\n\n28 Greer, The Female Eunuch, p. 57\n\n29 ibid., p. 63\n\n30 ibid., p. 69\n\n31 ibid., p. 166\n\n32 ibid., pp. 198\u20139\n\n33 ibid., p. 203\n\n34 Mailer, Norman, An American Dream, Dial Press, London, 1966, p. 25. Quoted in Greer, The Female Eunuch, p. 215\n\n35 Greer, The Female Eunuch, p. 241\n\n36 ibid., p. 264\n\n37 ibid., p. 289\n\n38 ibid., p. 335\n\n39 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch editorial, draft 'Summary', http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42289, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n40 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00686, Unit 83, copy of letter from Angela Phillips, Sheila Rowbotham, Liz Heron, Hilary Wainwright, Reva Klein, Kate Falcon, Gail Lewis and Judith Hunt published in the Sunday Times, 8 February 1984\n\n41 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00308, Unit 38, letter from Helen Garner to Germaine Greer, 30 June 1971, reproduced with the kind permission of the author. Helen Garner (b. 1942) is an Australian novelist, short story writer and journalist whose first novel, Monkey Grip, established her as one of Australia's most accomplished writers. In 1972, she was sacked from the Victorian Education Department for giving an unscheduled sex-education lesson to her thirteen-year-old students. Her case became notorious as a watershed moment in the history of the department.\n\n42 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00435, Unit 53, letter from Clive James to Germaine Greer, 23 July 1970\n\n43 Greenfield, Robert, 'A groupie in women's lib', Rolling Stone, 7 January 1971\n\n44 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Germaine Greer to Jim Haynes, 25 October 1972\n\n45 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Jim Haynes to Germaine Greer, 20 March 1973\n\n46 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Jim Haynes to Germaine Greer, 12 February 1974\n\n47 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Jim Haynes to Germaine Greer, 28 February 1973\n\n48 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Jim Haynes to Germaine Greer, 25 January 1991\n\n49 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Germaine Greer to Sarah Hardie, Faber & Faber publishers, London, 17 February 1983\n\n50 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00374, Unit 46, letter from Germaine Greer to Jim Haynes\n\n51 Melody Maker was a respected British pop\/rock\/electronic music weekly newspaper. It was founded in 1926 and continued until 2000.\n\n52 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, digitised collections, The Female Eunuch editorial, http:\/\/hdl.handle.net\/11343\/42289, accessed 31 August 2018\n\n53 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00326, Unit 40, Germaine Greer and Tony Gourvish correspondence 1971\u201376\n\n54 ibid.\n\n55 ibid.\n\n56 ibid.\n\n57 ibid.\n\n5 The commercialisation of Germaine Greer\n\n1 Buchwald, Art, 'The bra burners', New York Post, 12 September 1968, https:\/\/library.duke.edu\/digitalcollections\/wlmpc_maddc02018, accessed 20 July 2018\n\n2 Mailer, Norman, 'The prisoner of sex', Harper's Magazine, March 1971, pp. 41\u201392\n\n3 Crawford, Leslie, 'Kate Millett, the ambivalent feminist', Salon, 5 June 1999, www.salon.com\/1999\/06\/05\/millet, accessed 24 May 2018\n\n4 Greer, Germaine, 'The slag heap erupts', Oz, no. 26, February 1970, pp. 18\u201319. Reprinted in The Madwoman's Underclothes: Essays and occasional writings 1968\u20131985, Pan Books, London, 1986, p. 27\n\n5 ibid.\n\n6 Zito, Tom, 'The Greer career', Washington Post, 22 April 1971. Quoted in Wallace, Christine, Untamed Shrew, Richard Cohen Books, London, 2000, p. 179\n\n7 Quoted in Mosmann, Petra, 'A feminist fashion icon: Germaine Greer's paisley coat', Australian Feminist Studies, vol. 31, no. 87, 2016, pp. 78\u201394\n\n8 Dreifus, Claudia, 'The selling of a feminist', in Koedt, Anne, Levine, Ellen, and Rapone, Anita (eds), Radical Feminism, Quadrangle Books, New York, 1973, pp. 100\u20131\n\n9 Pacifica Radio Archives, 'FTV 411 Germaine Greer at the National Press Club, 1971', From the Vault, posted 31 March 2014, http:\/\/fromthevaultradio.org\/home\/2014\/03\/31\/ftv-411-germaine-greer-at-the-national-press-club-1971, accessed 21 June 2018\n\n10 Johnston, Jill, Lesbian Nation: The feminist solution, Simon & Schuster, New York, p. 25\n\n11 Greer, Germaine, 'My Mailer problem', Esquire, 7 September 1971, p. 80\n\n12 Mailer, Norman, The Prisoner of Sex, Little Brown & Co., New York, 1971\n\n13 Pennebaker, D.A., et al., Town Bloody Hall, documentary film, recorded 30 April 1971, distributed by Pennebaker Hedegus Films\n\n14 Greer, 'My Mailer Problem', p. 80\n\n15 Greer, The Madwoman's Underclothes\n\n16 Mailer, Norman, The Spooky Art: Some thoughts on writing, Random House, New York, 2003, p. 282\n\n17 Johnston, Lesbian Nation, p. 18\n\n18 ibid., p. 19\n\n19 ibid., p. 24\n\n20 Pennebaker et al., Town Bloody Hall. There are also some clips of the debate available on YouTube.\n\n21 Greer, 'My Mailer problem', p. 85\n\n22 ibid., p. 88\n\n23 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00013, Unit 2, letter from Christopher Hitchens to Germaine Greer, 14 April 1979\n\n24 Sheehan, Rebecca J., '\"If we had more like her we would no longer be the unheard majority\": Germaine Greer's reception in the United States', Australian Feminist Studies, vol. 31, no. 87, 2016, p. 10\n\n25 ibid., pp. 25\u20136\n\n26 The Women's Organization of Iran (WOI), created in 1966, was run mostly run by volunteers. Its committees worked on various issues of interest and importance to women. By 1975, the United Nations International Women's Year, the WOI had established 349 branches, 120 women's centres, a training centre and a centre for research. It was dismantled after the Islamic revolution in 1978.\n\n27 Greer, Germaine, 'The Betty I knew', The Guardian, 8 February 2006, www.theguardian.com\/world\/2006\/feb\/07\/gender.bookscomment, accessed 21 June 2018\n\n28 ibid.\n\n29 ibid.\n\n30 Greer acknowledged that she had experienced lesbian relationships, but asserted that she was 'not homosexual'. 'I could have a strong and enduring relationship with a woman but it's never happened. What has happened is that on several occasions women have made strong advances to me and I've been compelled to respond.' See Dreifus, Claudia, 'The life and loves of Germaine Greer', Forum: The international journal of human relations, vol. 7, no. 5, January 1975, pp. 12\u201319\n\n31 Johnston, Jill, 'Germaine and Guillaume in Baltimore', Village Voice, New York, 22 April 1971, pp. 31\u20132\n\n32 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00737, Unit 89, letter from Lillian Roxon to Germaine Greer, 1971\n\n33 ibid.\n\n34 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00737, Unit 89, letter from Germaine Greer to Lillian Roxon, 1971\n\n35 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00737, Unit 89, letter from Lillian Roxon to Germaine Greer, 1971\n\n36 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00267, Unit 33, letter from Germaine Greer to Louise Ferrier, 1 March 1972\n\n37 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00267, Unit 33, letter from Louise Ferrier to Germaine Greer\n\n38 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General Correspondence, 2014.0042.00737, Unit 89, letter from Germaine Greer to Nika Hazelton, 30 September 1973\n\n39 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00737, Unit 89, letter from Germaine Greer to 'Dearest Lonni', 30 September (no year)\n\n40 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00737, Unit 89, letter from Germaine Greer to Nika Hazelton\n\n41 Cook, Andrew, 'Hinch hits back at Greer's Roxon death claims', Crikey, 11 August 2010, www.crikey.com.au\/2010\/08\/11\/hinch-hits-back-at-greers-roxon-death-claims, accessed 21 June 2018\n\n42 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00737, Unit 44, Lillian Roxon to David Harcourt, 1971\n\n43 Hancock, Ian, 'Events and issues that made the news in 1972', National Archives of Australia, www.naa.gov.au\/collection\/explore\/cabinet\/by-year\/1972-events-issues.aspx, accessed 21 June 2018. Graham Freudenberg was Australian Prime Minister Gough Whitlam's one-time speechwriter.\n\n44 'That girl Germaine flies out in silence', The Age, 12 January 1972, p. 1\n\n45 Keavney, Kay, 'The liberating of Germaine Greer', Australian Women's Weekly, 2 February 1972, pp. 4\u20135\n\n46 Australian Broadcasting Commission, 'Germaine Greer and women's liberation, 1972', clip from This Day Tonight, first broadcast 22 March 1972, ABC Education, http:\/\/splash.abc.net.au\/home#!\/media\/1245334\/germaine-greer-and-women-s-liberation-1972, accessed 21 June 2018\n\n47 ibid.\n\n48 Forshaw, Thelma, 'Feminist yen for a grizzle and a bit of rough', The Age, 15 January 1972, p. 10\n\n49 Fry, Elsie, Letter to the Editor, 'A book that is unhealthy', The Age, 20 January 1972, p. 9\n\n50 Faust, Beatrice, 'The Germaine question', Australian Humanist, no. 21, 1972, p. 2\n\n51 Conversation between Elizabeth Kleinhenz and Phillip Frazer, Byron Bay, 27 July 2017\n\n52 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00267, Unit 33, letter from Germaine Greer to Louise Ferrier\n\n53 ibid.\n\n54 Conversation between Elizabeth Kleinhenz and Richard Walsh, Sydney, 14 February 2017\n\n55 Sue Kedgley is a New Zealand politician and author. She worked for the United Nations for eight years and was also a television presenter, director and producer. She represented the Green Party in the New Zealand parliament from 1999 to 2011.\n\n56 Kedgley, Sue, 'Caught in the crossfire: Women's liberation in the seventies', speech given to the Green Party of Aotearoa New Zealand, 4 December 2014\n\n57 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00491, Unit 60, photocopy of court transcript 'Police v. Germaine Greer \u2013 a charge of indecent language', Magistrate's Court, Auckland, New Zealand, date of hearing 10 March 1972\n\n58 Greer, Germaine, 'Bye-bye bull-shit', The Review, 18\u201324 March 1972, p. 621\n\n59 Australian Broadcasting Commission, 'Germaine Greer and women's liberation, 1972'\n\n6 Wind of Tizoula\n\n1 Anonymous Berber woman's song, quoted in Warnock Fernea, Elizabeth, and Bezirgan, Basima Qattan, Middle Eastern Muslim Women Speak, University of Texas Press, Austin and London, 1977, p. 134. The song was quoted by Germaine Greer as part of the chapter heading for Chapter 3 of Sex and Destiny: The politics of human fertility, Harper & Row, New York, 1984, p. 59\n\n2 Greer, Germaine, 'Taking the Queen out of the picture', Financial Times, 7\u20138 February 1998, p. 4, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00476, Unit 8\n\n3 Greer, Germaine, Country Notebook, 'Memories', The Telegraph, 16 February 2002, www.telegraph.co.uk\/gardening\/3297630\/Country-notebook-memories.html, accessed 19 June 2018\n\n4 ibid.\n\n5 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00168, Unit 12, correspondence between Germaine Greer and David Brooke, July and August 1971\n\n6 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00168, Unit 12, letter from Germaine Greer to Clive Bush, 29 August 1971\n\n7 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00688, Unit 83, letter from Nat Lehrman, Playboy editor, to Diana Crawfurd, 8 July 1971\n\n8 Lehrman, Nat, Germaine Greer Interview, Playboy, January 1972, p. 27\n\n9 Dunstan, Keith, Ratbags, Golden Press Limited, Sydney, 1979, pp. 259\u201364\n\n10 Greer, Germaine, 'Blame the English, blame the frost, but Tuscany is so over', The Independent, 28 March 2004, www.independent.co.uk\/voices\/commentators\/germaine-greer-blame-the-english-blame-the-frost-but-tuscany-is-so-over-567881.html, accessed 21 June 2018\n\n11 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00168, Unit 12, letter from Germaine Greer to Clive Bush, 29 August 1971\n\n12 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, draft of introduction by Greer to a book of poetry by Gay Clifford\n\n13 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00739, Unit 89, letter from Germaine Greer to Franki Roberts, 1971\n\n14 Smart, Jeffrey, Not Quite Straight: A memoir, William Heinemann, Melbourne, 1996, p. 420. Quoted in Drakard, Jane, 'Elusive landscapes: Australians and \"the Italian garden\"', in Kent, Bill, Pesman, Ros and Troup, Cynthia (eds), Australians in Italy: Contemporary lives and impressions, Monash University Publishing, http:\/\/books.publishing.monash.edu\/apps\/bookworm\/view\/Australians+in+Italy%3A+Contemporary+Lives+and+Impressions\/52\/Ch18_AI.html, accessed 30 August 2018\n\n15 Zeroni, Tiziana, 'Germaine Greer: Her heart is in Tuscany', Northern Territory News, 3 April 1982. Quoted in Drakard, 'Elusive landscapes'\n\n16 Greer, Germaine, 'Federico Fellini wanted to cast me in Casanova. We ended up in bed together', The Guardian, 12 April 2010, www.theguardian.com\/culture\/2010\/apr\/11\/germaine-greer-federico-fellini, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n17 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00739, Unit 89, letter from Franki Roberts to Germaine Greer, 3 September 1973\n\n18 'A drift on Germaine Greer: One telling incident, feminism, modern day shameless Ranterism, wreckage and total loss', Revolt Against Plenty, September 2007, www.revoltagainstplenty.com\/index.php\/archive-local\/49-a-drift-on-germaine-greer-feminism-and-modern-day-shameless-ranterism.html, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n19 Greer, Germaine, 'My most gracious and beautiful dwelling', The Guardian, 22 October 2007, www.theguardian.com\/artanddesign\/2007\/oct\/22\/architecture, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n20 The Women's Electoral Lobby is a political lobby group that was founded by Beatrice Faust in 1972. It surveys state and federal political candidates on their policies regarding women.\n\n21 Germaine Greer quoted in Sunday Times, London, 7 December 1975\n\n22 Roots, Hilary, 'Germaine Greer: Why I want a baby . . .', Australian Women's Weekly, 14 January 1976, pp. 2\u20135, https:\/\/trove.nla.gov.au\/aww\/read\/224700?q=Germaine+Greer&s=0&resultId=num4#page\/4\/mode\/1up, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n23 ibid.\n\n24 Wallace, Christine, Untamed Shrew, Pan Macmillan Australia, Sydney, 1977, p. 221\n\n25 Roots, 'Germaine Greer: Why I want a baby . . .', p. 3\n\n26 The Gr\u00e4fenberg ring, an early IUD contraceptive device, was developed by Ernst Gr\u00e4fenberg in 1929. In Sex and Destiny, Germaine Greer notes: 'The Grafenberg ring was still being fitted by discreet doctors in a handpicked clientele as far afield as Victoria, Australia, in the 1950s.'\n\n27 Greer, Germaine, 'The truth is, says Germaine Greer, I was desperate for a baby and I have the medical bills to prove it', Aura, March 2000, pp. 23\u20136\n\n28 Grizzuti-Harrison, Barbara, 'Germaine Greer: After the change', Mirabella, September 1992, p. 90. Quoted in Wallace, Untamed Shrew, p. 221\n\n29 Hughes-Onslow, James, 'My doomed love for Ms Greer', Daily Mail, 20 February 1999, p. 20\n\n30 ibid.\n\n31 ibid.\n\n32 Simons, Margaret, '\"The long letter to a short love, or . . .\": In her love letter novella to Martin Amis, Germaine Greer bared her fragile heart and complex soul', Meanjin, vol. 74, no. 4, Summer 2015, pp. 28\u201344\n\n33 ibid.\n\n34 ibid.\n\n35 Nochlin, Linda, 'Women painters and Germaine Greer', New York Times, 28 October 1979, www.nytimes.com\/1979\/10\/28\/archives\/women-painters-and-germaine-greer-artists-greer.html, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n36 Brophy, Brigid, 'The one-eyed world of Germaine Greer', London Review of Books, 22 November 1979, www.lrb.co.uk\/v01\/n03\/brigid-brophy\/the-one-eyed-world-of-germaine-greer, accessed 20 July 2018\n\n37 Fell, Liz, Interview with Germaine Greer for ABC Radio The Coming Out Show, 25 January 1979, quoted in Wallace, Untamed Shrew, pp. 223\u20134\n\n38 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.0014, Unit 2, correspondence relating to Greer's taxation problems, March 1978 \u2013 September 1979: Felton, Anton; Felton & Partners, accountants; Collector of Taxes, London; Controller of Inland Revenue, London; Inland Revenue Enforcement Office, London; Peter Grose, London\n\n39 ibid.\n\n40 Chambers, Andrea, 'Witty, raunchy and nobody's eunuch, Germaine Greer is teaching Tulsa a thing or two', People, 17 December 1979, https:\/\/people.com\/archive\/witty-raunchy-and-nobodys-eunuch-germaine-greer-is-teaching-tulsa-a-thing-or-two-vol-12-no-25, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n41 Boeth, Richard, 'Naugahyde mouth meets the Sooner aesthetic', Westward: Dallas Times Herald, 21 February 1981\n\n42 ibid.\n\n43 Chambers, 'Witty, raunchy and nobody's eunuch, Germaine Greer is teaching Tulsa a thing or two'\n\n44 ibid.\n\n45 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.0131, Unit 16, correspondence between Germaine Greer and a young girl, 24 April 1980, 22 May 1980\n\n46 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2104.0042.00041, Unit 5, photograph of John\n\n47 Boeth, 'Naugahyde mouth meets the Sooner aesthetic'\n\n48 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00041, Unit 5, correspondence between John Attwood and Germaine Greer. Most letters are undated.\n\n49 ibid.\n\n50 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Early years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00014, Unit 2, letter from Felton & Partners, accountants, to Germaine Greer, 3 April 1981\n\n51 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, years academic, performance, writing and personal papers 1957\u20132005, 2014.0044.00016, Unit 3, letter from Harbottle & Lewis, London, solicitors, to Germaine Greer, 25 September 1981\n\n52 Plante, David, Difficult Women, E.P. Dutton, New York, 1983, p. 120\n\n53 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00041, Unit 5, correspondence between John Attwood and Germaine Greer\n\n54 Plante, Difficult Women, p. 126\n\n55 ibid., p. 128\n\n56 ibid., p. 126\n\n57 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00041, Unit 5, correspondence between John Attwood and Germaine Greer\n\n58 Greer, Germaine, 'Reality can bite back', The Guardian, 5 August 2006, www.theguardian.com\/commentisfree\/2006\/aug\/05\/bookscomment, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n7 Recalibration\n\n1 Greer later declared that she had never suffered from an STD. 'Despite a lifetime of service to the cause of sexual liberation,' she wrote in an article for the Sunday Times, 'I have never caught a venereal disease, which makes me feel rather like an arctic explorer who has never had frostbite. I have several times had occasion to verify the fact beyond any doubt and have not always fared well. My NHS doctor in the Midlands fixed me with a terrible stare and asked me what else I expected, given the life I led.' Greer, Germaine, 'It's time that VD was socially accepted', Sunday Times, 25 February 1973, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print Journalism, 2014.0046.00078, Unit 2\n\n2 Greer, Germaine, Sex and Destiny: The politics of human fertility, Harper & Row, New York, 1984\n\n3 ibid., pp. 70\u20131\n\n4 James, Clive, 'A question of quality', The Observer, 3 February 1980, quoted in Greer, Sex and Destiny, p. 44\n\n5 Greer, Sex and Destiny, p. 43\n\n6 Mason, Michael, 'Thought control', London Review of Books, vol. 6, no. 5, 15 March 1984, pp. 3\u20134\n\n7 Greer, Sex and Destiny, p. 257\n\n8 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00358, Unit 44, 'WH' to Germaine Greer\n\n9 Singer, Peter, 'Sex & superstition', New York Review of Books, 31 May 1984, www.nybooks.com\/articles\/1984\/05\/31\/sex-superstition, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n10 Plante, David, Becoming a Londoner: A diary, Bloomsbury, New York, 2013, p. 440\n\n11 ibid., p. 441\n\n12 ibid., p. 442\n\n13 ibid., p. 444\n\n14 The iconic Reading Room of the British Museum, officially opened on 2 May 1857, was used by many famous writers, including Rudyard Kipling, Karl Marx, H.G. Wells and Vladimir Lenin. In 1973, the British Library Trust detached the library department from the Museum. In 1997, the British Library moved to its own specially constructed building near St Pancras station. All books and shelving were removed from the Reading Room. From 2000 it was used for exhibitions, but the building is now closed to visitors and its future remains uncertain. The Reading Room of the Melbourne Public Library (now the State Library of Victoria), where Germaine Greer spent much time in her student days, was modelled on the old Reading Room at the British Museum.\n\n15 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General Correspondence, 2014.0042.00065, Unit 8, letter from Germaine Greer to Anne Barton, 9 January 1985\n\n16 Hughes-Onslow, James, 'My doomed love for Ms Greer', Daily Mail, 20 February 1999, p. 20. Hughes-Onslow contacted Greer before he wrote this article to ask for her approval. She responded, 'By all means write the piece.' But it would not be with her approval. After the article was published, he sent her a copy that is now housed in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00413, Unit 50\n\n17 Polly Toynbee and Jill Tweedie were best known for their columns in The Guardian. The purpose of this visit was to assist in the promotion of Germaine Greer's latest book, Kissing the Rod. Both women are commemorated in a group portrait in the British National Gallery that also includes Guardian Women's Page contributors, Mary Stott, Posy Simmons and Liz Forgan.\n\n18 Toynbee, Polly, 'Behind the lines: Ironing in the soul', in Cochrane, Kira (ed.), Women of the Revolution: Forty years of feminism, Guardian Books, London, 2010, pp. 123\u201333\n\n19 Fallowell, Duncan, 20th Century Characters, Vintage, London, 1994, p. 18\n\n20 Greer, Germaine, 'Where the chill wind blows', The Observer Magazine, 13 April 1986\n\n21 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00500, Unit 8, Greer, Germaine, typed copy faxed and emailed to Tiffany Daneff, Daily Telegraph (not published), 17 July 1999\n\n22 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00072, Unit 9, Correspondence between Germaine Greer and a house guest, May 1986\n\n23 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00543, Unit 66, letter from Paul McHugh to Germaine Greer, 26 January 1992\n\n24 Greer, Germaine, 'Translating for Tynan and Canada versus New York', in Craven, Peter (ed.), The Best Australian Essays: 1999, Bookman Press, Melbourne, 1999, pp. 11\u201320\n\n25 Fitzpatrick, Kate, Airmail: Three women, letters from five continents, John Wiley & Sons Australia, Milton, Queensland, 2005\n\n26 Fitzpatrick, Kate, Name Dropping: An incomplete memoir, HarperCollins, Pymble, New South Wales, 2010, pp. 391\n\n27 Greer, Germaine, 'The false gods of poetry', Sunday Times, 3 June 1990\n\n28 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, letter from Germaine Greer to Pam Clifford\n\n29 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, letter from Germaine Greer to Pam Clifford, 16 March 1986\n\n30 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, letter from Germaine Greer to Pam and Freddie Clifford, 11 August 1986\n\n31 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, draft of introduction by Greer to a book of poetry by Gay Clifford\n\n32 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00154, Unit 19, Address given by Germaine Greer at the Thanksgiving Service for Gay Clifford at Holy Trinity Church, Minchinhampton, Gloucestershire, 6 August 1998\n\n33 Virago Press was founded by Carmen Callil in 1973 and was the first mass-market publisher of books for and by women.\n\n34 Email correspondence between Elizabeth Kleinhenz and Carmen Callil, 2017\n\n35 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00180, Unit 4, draft titled 'Callil interviewed by Greer', sent to Gail Heathwood of Vogue magazine\n\n36 Hoggart, Simon in The Guardian, 8 February 1994, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00400, Unit 6\n\n37 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00400, Unit 6\n\n38 Greer, Germaine, Country Notebook, 'Home truths about John Peel', Daily Telegraph, 13 June 2006, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00577, Unit 10\n\n39 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00027, Unit 4, letter to Germaine Greer. (Greer notes that this letter is from an 'anon maniac'.)\n\n40 ibid.\n\n41 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00638, Unit 78, correspondence between Germaine Greer and Peter O'Shaughnessy\n\n42 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00027, Unit 4, letter from Germaine Greer to Cambridgeshire Constabulary, 26 May 1988, and their reply, 10 June 1988\n\n43 Sapsted, David, 'Stalker jumped on Greer crying \"Mummy, Mummy\"', The Telegraph, 5 July 2000, www.telegraph.co.uk\/news\/uknews\/1346664\/Stalker-jumped-on-Greer-crying-Mummy-Mummy.html, accessed 19 July 2018\n\n44 Clout, Laura, 'West End play \"The Female of the Species\" angers Germaine Greer', The Telegraph, London, 13 July 2008, www.telegraph.co.uk\/news\/uknews\/2403697\/West-End-play-The-Female-of-the-Species-angers-Germaine-Greer.html, accessed 19 July 2018\n\n45 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00299, Unit 37, piece for Front Row BBC Radio 4 about The Female of the Species\n\n46 Conversation between Elizabeth Kleinhenz and Christine Wallace, Melbourne, 23 February 2018\n\n47 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00974, Unit 113, letter from Germaine Greer to her solicitor, addressed to 'Geoffrey', with copy of letter sent to Pan Macmillan, 4 November 1999\n\n48 Wallace, Christine, 'Metaphors from a compost heap', The Guardian, 2 November 1994, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00974, Unit 113\n\n49 Email correspondence between Elizabeth Kleinhenz and Christine Wallace, January 2018\n\n50 Brown, Tina, Sydney Morning Herald article quoted in Wallace, Christine, Untamed Shrew, Richard Cohen Books, London, 2000, p. 246\n\n51 Greer, Germaine, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, Ballantine Books, New York, 1989, pp. 3\u20134\n\n52 ibid.\n\n53 Fallowell, 20th Century Characters, p. 18\n\n54 Greer, Daddy, We Hardly Knew You, p. 17\n\n55 ibid., p. 281\n\n56 ibid., pp. 246\u20137\n\n57 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00236, Unit 29, letter from Ross Dunham, Launceston, to Germaine Greer, 1992\n\n8 The Change\n\n1 Greer, Germaine, The Change: Women, aging and the menopause, Ballantine Books, New York, 1991, p. 31\n\n2 ibid., p. 12\n\n3 ibid., pp. 297\u20138\n\n4 ibid., p. 338\n\n5 ibid., p. 86\n\n6 ibid., p. 174. In 1994, two years into her own menopause, Greer confided to writer Duncan Fallowell that she had experienced severe menopausal symptoms that included sleeplessness and teeth-grinding. She had 'given in' to having HRT. See Fallowell, Duncan, 20th Century Characters, Vintage, London, 1994, p. 22\n\n7 Greer, The Change, p. 246\n\n8 Greer, Germaine, 'A life in the day of Germaine Greer', Sunday Times, 3 August 1986\n\n9 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00640, Unit 78, faxed correspondence between Germaine Greer and Richard Ingrams\n\n10 Greer, Germaine, 'We shall not be neutered', The Spectator, 20 May 1995, p. 54, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00425, Unit 7\n\n11 Moore, Suzanne, and Greer, Germaine, articles in The Guardian, copies held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00431, Unit 7\n\n12 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00431, Unit 7, copy faxed to Nicholas Wapshott for The Times Magazine, 5 June 1995\n\n13 Berman, Paul, 'The Rushdie affair and the struggle against Islamism', New Republic, 7 December 2012, https:\/\/newrepublic.com\/article\/110804\/who-are-the-real-blasphemers, accessed 20 June 2018\n\n14 Elie, Paul, 'A fundamental fight', Vanity Fair, May 2014, www.vanityfair.com\/culture\/2014\/05\/salman-rushdie-ian-mcwean-martin-amis-satanic-verses-fatwa, accessed 12 June 2018\n\n15 Ball, Graham, 'Fay Weldon hits back at the Islamically correct', The Independent, 2 March 1997, www.independent.co.uk\/news\/uk\/home-news\/fay-weldon-hits-back-at-the-islamically-correct-1270602.html, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n16 Moir, Jan, '\"We're all living under a fatwa: you just have to get on\"', The Telegraph, 18 August 2006, www.telegraph.co.uk\/culture\/books\/3654603\/Were-all-living-under-a-fatwa-you-just-have-to-get-on.html, accessed 20 July 2018\n\n17 Rushdie, Salman, Joseph Anton: A memoir, Random House, New York, 2012, p. 187\n\n18 Rae, Fiona, 'Germaine Greer: Glitter-bomb neither here nor there', The Listener, 26 March 2012, www.noted.co.nz\/archive\/listener-nz-2012\/germaine-greer-glitter-bomb-neither-here-nor-there, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n19 The UK Gender Recognition Act 2004 gives people with gender dysphoria legal recognition as members of the sex appropriate to their gender (masculine or feminine), allowing them to acquire a Gender Recognition Certificate that affords recognition of their sex in law, including for the purposes of marriage. The two main exceptions are a right of conscience for Church of England clergy (who are normally obliged to marry any two eligible people by law), and that the descent of peerages will remain unchanged. Additionally, sports organisations are allowed to exclude trans people if it is necessary for 'fair competition or the safety of the competitors'.\n\n20 Greer, Germaine, The Whole Woman, Anchor Books, New York, 2000, p. 5\n\n21 ibid., pp. 23\u20134\n\n22 ibid., p. 149\n\n23 ibid., p. 101\n\n24 American Academy of Pediatrics Committee on Bioethics, 'Female genital mutilation', Pediatrics, vol. 102, no. 1, July 1998, https:\/\/pediatrics.aappublications.org\/content\/102\/1\/153, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n25 Greer, The Whole Woman, p. 102\n\n26 ibid., p. 332\n\n27 ibid., p. 334\n\n28 ibid., p. 142\n\n29 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00584, Unit 71, correspondence between Germaine Greer and Kiri and Jennie Morley, December 1999\n\n9 Coming home\n\n1 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel' is a long narrative poem in six cantos by Walter Scott, published in 1805.\n\n2 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00100, Unit 3, Diary 1997, audio diary recorded while walking her dogs on the fields near her home. In this quote she is reflecting on her performance on a BBC breakfast television show.\n\n3 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00492, Unit 60, letter to Germaine Greer from Sam Leith, Eton, 20 June 1992\n\n4 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00100, Unit 3, Diary 1997, audio diary recorded while walking her dogs on the fields near her home\n\n5 ibid.\n\n6 Greer, Germaine, Stump Cross Roundabout, The Oldie, no. 16, 18 September 1992, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00275, Unit 5. The 'hollow girl' is a reference to T.S. Eliot's poem 'The Hollow Men'.\n\n7 Greer, Germaine, Country Notebook, 'Housewives in Strasbourg', Daily Telegraph, 25 November 2000, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00601, Unit 10\n\n8 Greer, Germaine, Country Notebook, 'These days, I prefer nature, not nurture', Daily Telegraph, 22 April 2000, p. 11, copy held in University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00570, Unit 10\n\n9 Fallowell, Duncan, 20th Century Characters, Vintage, London, 1994, p. 13\n\n10 Greer, Germaine, White Beech: The rainforest years, Bloomsbury, London, 2013, p. 38\n\n11 ibid., p. 93\n\n12 ibid.\n\n13 'Queenslanders' are houses built on high stumps so that the living areas are raised off the ground. This allows for good ventilation in the hot, humid climate and also protects the house from termite infestation. Most Queenslanders have wide verandahs. The space under the house is used for storage, drying washing, or for extra cool living space in the hot months.\n\n14 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00116, Unit 3, audio diary recorded by Germaine Greer at Cave Creek, 2003\n\n15 ibid.\n\n16 Greer, White Beech, p. 295\n\n17 The Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS), established in 1961, is devoted to the study of Indigenous culture and history. It incorporates disciplines such as anthropology, archaeology, art, health, education, linguistics and ethnomusicology.\n\n18 Greer, White Beech, p. 140\n\n19 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Honoris causa and recognition 1963\u20132014, 2017.0028.00004, Unit 1, letter from Germaine Greer to W.E. Chapman, Secretary for Appointments, Prime Minister's Department, 10 Downing Street, London, 28 November 1999\n\n20 Greer, Germaine, Whitefella Jump Up: The shortest way to nationhood, Profile Books, London, 2004, p. 23\n\n21 ibid., p. 3\n\n22 ibid., p. 2\n\n23 ibid., p. 35\n\n24 Bobbi Sykes (1943\u20132010) was an Australian poet and author. She was a lifelong campaigner for the rights of Indigenous people, although she was not herself of Aboriginal descent.\n\n25 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00267, Unit 33, letter from Germaine Greer to Louise Ferrier, 1 March 1972\n\n26 Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 37\n\n27 Cowlishaw, Gillian, Rednecks, Eggheads and Blackfellas: A study of racial power and intimacy in Australia, Allen & Unwin, St Leonards, New South Wales, 1999, quoted in Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 38\n\n28 Jordan, Mary Ellen, 'Response', in Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 187\n\n29 Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 52\n\n30 Millett, Patsy, 'Response', in Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 204\n\n31 Durack Clancy, P.A., 'Response', in Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 146\n\n32 Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 226\n\n33 Langton, Marcia, 'Response', in Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, pp. 158\u201370\n\n34 Greer, Whitefella Jump Up, p. 222\n\n35 ibid., pp. 226\u20137\n\n36 Langton, Marcia, 'Greer maintains rage of racists', The Australian, 19 August 2008, www.theaustralian.com.au\/opinion\/greer-maintains-rage-of-racists\/news-story\/2a157d5b9029135ae6ac609a047a0769?sv=8bc403754767577667e3e26b0649c551, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n37 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, General correspondence 1958\u20132014, 2014.0042.00185, Unit 23, Correspondence between Germaine Greer and Roy Colquhoun, July 2007\n\n38 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00983, Unit 18\n\n39 Devine, Miranda, 'Generation of taboo breakers are a selfish lot', Sydney Morning Herald, 10 July 2003, www.smh.com.au\/articles\/2003\/07\/09\/1057430278896.html, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n40 Enough Rope with Andrew Denton, ABC TV, 15 September 2003, transcript, www.abc.net.au\/tv\/enoughrope\/transcripts\/s946782.htm, accessed 6 June 2017\n\n41 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, 2014.0042.00024, Unit 3, Correspondence (mostly anon)\n\n42 Britain, Ian, 'Mad about The Boy', Australian Book Review, December 2003\/January 2004, pp. 11\u201312\n\n43 Greer, Germaine, 'If Michelle Obama's such a great dresser, what was she doing in this red butcher's apron?' The Guardian, 17 November 2008, www.theguardian.com\/world\/2008\/nov\/17\/michelleobama-fashion, accessed 20 July 2018\n\n44 'Politics and porn in a post-feminist world', Q&A, ABC TV, 19 March 2012, transcript, www.abc.net.au\/tv\/qanda\/txt\/s3451584.htm, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n45 Clarke-Billings, Lucy, 'Germaine Greer in transgender rant: \"Just because you lop off your penis . . . it doesn't make you a woman\"', The Telegraph, 26 October 2015, www.telegraph.co.uk\/news\/health\/news\/11955891\/Germaine-Greer-in-transgender-rant-Just-because-you-lop-off-your-penis...it-doesnt-make-you-a-woman.html, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n46 Twitter user @FameForNothing, 26 October 2015, quoted in Clarke-Billings, 'Germaine Greer in transgender rant'\n\n47 Llewellyn Smith, Julia, 'Barry Humphries: \"Caitlyn Jenner is a publicity-seeking ratbag\", The Telegraph, 5 January 2016, www.telegraph.co.uk\/comedy\/comedians\/barry-humphries-caitlyn-jenner-is-a-publicity-seeking-ratbag, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n48 Gayle, Damien, 'Caitlyn Jenner \"wanted limelight of female Kardashians\" \u2013 Germaine Greer', The Guardian, 25 October 2015, www.theguardian.com\/books\/2015\/oct\/24\/caitlyn-jenner-wanted-limelight-of-female-kardashians-germaine-greer, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n49 Quinn, Ben, 'Petition urges Cardiff University to cancel Germaine Greer lecture', The Guardian, 24 October 2015, www.theguardian.com\/education\/2015\/oct\/23\/petition-urges-cardiff-university-to-cancel--germain-greer-lecture, accessed 20 July 2018\n\n50 McMahon, Alle, 'Germaine Greer defends views on transgender issues amid calls for cancellation of feminism lecture', 25 October 2015, www.abc.net.au\/news\/2015-10-25\/germaine-greer-defends-views-on-transgender-issues\/6883132, accessed 13 June 2018\n\n10 Full circle\n\n1 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00437, Unit 7, Germaine Greer to Peter Forbes, editor, Poetry Review\n\n2 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00438, Unit 7, Germaine Greer to Georgina Goodman, editor, Elle, 23 August 1995\n\n3 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, 2014.0046.00453, Unit 7, correspondence between Germaine Greer and Bill Buford, senior editor, New Yorker magazine, July 1996\n\n4 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Print journalism 1959\u20132010, Unit 7, 2014.0046.00453, Draft copy of article 'Singin' in the Rain' by Germaine Greer (not published), in correspondence between Germaine Greer and Bill Buford, senior editor, New Yorker magazine, July 1996\n\n5 Morgan, Joyce, 'Sydney Festival review: Mailer and Greer trade hammerblows in early feminist fracas', Sydney Morning Herald, 8 January 2018, www.smh.com.au\/entertainment\/sydney-festival-review-mailer-and-greer-trade-hammerblows-in-early-feminist-fracas-20180108-h0eyu7.html, accessed 22 June 2018. The reviewer gave The Town Hall Affair 2.5 stars out of 5.\n\n6 Miller, Nick, 'Germaine Greer challenges #MeToo campaign', Sydney Morning Herald, 21 January 2018, www.smh.com.au\/world\/germaine-greer-challenges-metoo-campaign-20180121-h0lpra, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n7 Panahi, Rita, 'The #MeToo sisterhood is on a witch hunt', Herald Sun, 14 January 2018, www.heraldsun.com.au\/news\/opinion\/rita-panahi\/rita-panahi-the-metoo-sisterhood-is-on-a-witch-hunt\/news-story\/4472c7fdc58608b7d3bcf556bdc701f5, accessed 22 June 2018\n\n8 University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer Collection, Audio recordings produced and received by Greer 1971\u20132010, 2014.0040.00032, Unit 1, Germaine Greer interviewed by Dr Anthony Clare for the BBC Radio 4 program In the Psychiatrist's Chair, 23 August 1989\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by Imran Ghory, Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG WOODSMAN\n\nOR\n\nLife in the Forests of Canada\n\nBY J. MACDONALD OXLEY\n\nAuthor of \"Diamond Rock; or, On the Right Track,\" &c. &c.\n\n1895\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n     I. THE CALL TO WORK\n\n    II. THE CHOICE OF AN OCCUPATION\n\n   III. OFF TO THE WOODS\n\n    IV. THE BUILDING OF THE SHANTY\n\n     V. STANDING FIRE\n\n    VI. LIFE IN THE LUMBER CAMP\n\n   VII. A THRILLING EXPERIENCE\n\n  VIII. IN THE NICK OF TIME\n\n    IX. OUT OF CLOUDS, SUNSHINE\n\n     X. A HUNTING-TRIP\n\n    XI. THE GREAT SPRING DRIVE\n\n   XII. HOME AGAIN\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG WOODSMAN.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE CALL TO WORK.\n\n\n\"I'm afraid there'll be no more school for you now, Frank darling. Will\nyou mind having to go to work?\"\n\n\"Mind it! Why, no, mother; not the least bit. I'm quite old enough, ain't\nI?\"\n\n\"I suppose you are, dear; though I would like to have you stay at your\nlessons for one more year anyway. What kind of work would you like best?\"\n\n\"That's not a hard question to answer, mother. I want to be what father\nwas.\"\n\nThe mother's face grew pale at this reply, and for some few moments she\nmade no response.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe march of civilization on a great continent means loss as well as\ngain. The opening up of the country for settlement, the increase and\nspread of population, the making of the wilderness to blossom as the\nrose, compel the gradual retreat and disappearance of interesting\nfeatures that can never be replaced. The buffalo, the beaver, and the elk\nhave gone; the bear, the Indian, and the forest in which they are both\nmost at home, are fast following.\n\nAlong the northern border of settlement in Canada there are flourishing\nvillages and thriving hamlets to-day where but a few years ago the\nverdurous billows of the primeval forest rolled in unbroken grandeur. The\nhistory of any one of these villages is the history of all. An open space\nbeside the bank of a stream or the margin of a lake presented itself to\nthe keen eye of the woodranger traversing the trackless waste of forest\nas a fine site for a lumber camp. In course of time the lumber camp grew\ninto a depot from which other camps, set still farther back in the depths\nof the \"limits,\" are supplied. Then the depot develops into a settlement\nsurrounded by farms; the settlement gathers itself into a village with\nshops, schools, churches, and hotels; and so the process of growth goes\non, the forest ever retreating as the dwellings of men multiply.\n\nIt was in a village with just such a history, and bearing the name of\nCalumet, occupying a commanding situation on a vigorous tributary of the\nOttawa River--the Grand River, as the dwellers beside its banks are fond\nof calling it--that Frank Kingston first made the discovery of his own\nexistence and of the world around him. He at once proceeded to make\nhimself master of the situation, and so long as he confined his efforts\nto the limits of his own home he met with an encouraging degree of\nsuccess; for he was an only child, and, his father's occupation requiring\nhim to be away from home a large part of the year, his mother could\nhardly be severely blamed if she permitted her boy to have a good deal of\nhis own way.\n\nIn the result, however, he was not spoiled. He came of sturdy, sensible\nstock, and had inherited some of the best qualities from both sides of\nthe house. To his mother he owed his fair curly hair, his deep blue,\nhonest eyes, his impulsive and tender heart; to his father, his strong\nsymmetrical figure, his quick brain, and his eager ambition. He was a\ngood-looking, if not strikingly handsome, boy, and carried himself in an\nalert, active way that made a good impression on one at the start. He had\na quick temper that would flash out hotly if he were provoked, and at\nsuch times he would do and say things for which he was heartily sorry\nafterwards. But from those hateful qualities that we call malice,\nrancour, and sullenness he was absolutely free. To \"have it out\" and then\nshake hands and forget all about it--that was his way of dealing with a\ndisagreement. Boys built on these lines are always popular among their\ncomrades, and Frank was no exception. In fact, if one of those amicable\ncontests as to the most popular personage, now so much in vogue at fairs\nand bazaars, were to have been held in Calumet school, the probabilities\nwere all in favour of Frank coming out at the head of the poll.\n\nBut better, because more enduring than all these good qualities of body,\nhead, and heart that formed Frank's sole fortune in the world, was the\nthorough religious training upon which they were based. His mother had\nleft a Christian household to help her husband to found a new home in the\ngreat Canadian timberland; and this new home had ever been a sweet,\nserene centre of light and love. While Calumet was little more than a\nstraggling collection of unlovely frame cottages, and too small to have a\nchurch and pastor of its own, the hard-working Christian minister who\nmanaged to make his way thither once a month or so, to hold service in\nthe little schoolroom, was always sure of the heartiest kind of a\nwelcome, and the daintiest dinner possible in that out-of-the-way place,\nat Mrs. Kingston's cozy cottage. And thus Frank had been brought into\nfriendly relations with the \"men in black\" from the start, with the good\nresult of causing him to love and respect these zealous home\nmissionaries, instead of shrinking from them in vague repugnance, as did\nmany of his companions who had not his opportunities.\n\nWhen he grew old enough to be trusted, it was his proud privilege to take\nthe minister's tired horse to water and to fill the rack with sweet hay\nfor his refreshment before they all went off to the service together; and\nvery frequently when the minister was leaving he would take Frank up\nbeside him for a drive as far as the cross-roads, not losing the chance\nto say a kindly and encouraging word or two that might help the little\nfellow heavenward.\n\nIn due time the settlement so prospered and expanded that a little church\nwas established there, and great was the delight of Mrs. Kingston when\nCalumet had its minister, to whom she continued to be a most effective\nhelper. This love for the church and its workers, which was more manifest\nin her than in her husband--for, although he thought and felt alike with\nher, he was a reserved, undemonstrative man--Mrs. Kingston sought by\nevery wise means to instill into her only son; and she had much success.\nReligion had no terrors for him. He had never thought of it as a gloomy,\njoy-dispelling influence that would make him a long-faced \"softy.\" Not a\nbit of it. His father was religious; and who was stronger, braver, or\nmore manly than his father? His mother was a pious woman; and who could\nlaugh more cheerily or romp more merrily than his mother? The ministers\nwho came to the house were men of God; and yet they were full of life and\nspirits, and dinner never seemed more delightful than when they sat at\nthe table. No, indeed! You would have had a hard job to persuade Frank\nKingston that you lost anything by being religious. He knew far better\nthan that; and while of course he was too thorough a boy, with all a\nboy's hasty, hearty, impulsive ways, to do everything \"decently and in\norder,\" and would kick over the traces, so to speak, sometimes, and give\nrather startling exhibitions of temper, still in the main and at heart he\nwas a sturdy little Christian, who, when the storm was over, felt more\nsorry and remembered it longer than did anybody else.\n\nOut of the way as Calumet might seem to city folk, yet the boys of the\nplace managed to have a very good time. There were nearly a hundred of\nthem, ranging in age from seven years to seventeen, attending the school\nwhich stood in the centre of a big lot at the western end of the village,\nand with swimming, boating, lacrosse, and baseball in summer, and\nskating, snow-shoeing, and tobogganing in winter, they never lacked for\nfun. Frank was expert in all these sports. Some of the boys might excel\nhim at one or another of them, but not one of his companions could beat\nhim in an all-round contest. This was due in part to the strength and\nsymmetry of his frame, and in part to that spirit of thoroughness which\ncharacterized all he undertook. There was nothing half-way about him. He\nput his whole soul into everything that interested him, and, so far as\nplay was concerned, at fifteen years of age he could swim, run, handle a\nlacrosse, hit a base-ball, skim over the ice on skates, or over snow on\nsnow-shoes, with a dexterity that gave himself a vast amount of pleasure\nand his parents a good deal of pride in him.\n\nNor was he behindhand as regarded the training of his mind. Mr. Warren,\nthe head teacher of the Calumet school, regarded him favourably as one of\nhis best and brightest pupils, and it was not often that the \"roll of\nhonour\" failed to contain the name of Frank Kingston. At the midsummer\nclosing of the school it was Mr. Warren's practice to award a number of\nsimple prizes to the pupils whose record throughout the half-year had\nbeen highest in the different subjects, and year after year Frank had won\na goodly share of these trophies, which were always books, so that now\nthere was a shelf in his room upon which stood in attractive array\nLivingstone's \"Travels,\" Ballantyne's \"Hudson Bay,\" Kingsley's \"Westward\nHo!\" side by side with \"Robinson Crusoe,\" \"Pilgrim's Progress,\" and \"Tom\nBrown at Rugby.\" Frank knew these books almost by heart, yet never\nwearied of turning to them again and again. He drew inspiration from\nthem. They helped to mould his character, although of this he was hardly\nconscious, and they filled his soul with a longing for adventure and\nenterprise that no ordinary everyday career could satisfy. He looked\nforward eagerly to the time when he would take a man's part in life and\nattempt and achieve notable deeds. With Amyas Leigh he traversed the\ntropical wilderness of Southern America, or with the \"Young Fur Traders\"\nthe hard-frozen wastes of the boundless North, and he burned to\nemulate their brave doings. He little knew, as he indulged in these\nboyish imaginations, that the time was not far off when the call would\ncome to him to begin life in dead earnest on his own account, and with as\nmany obstacles to be overcome in his way as had any of his favourite\nheroes in theirs.\n\nMr. Kingston was at home only during the summer season. The long cold\nwinter months were spent by him at the \"depot,\" many miles off in the\nheart of the forest, or at the \"shanties\" that were connected with it. At\nrare intervals during the winter he might manage to get home for a\nSunday, but that was all his wife and son saw of him until the spring\ntime. When the \"drive\" of the logs that represented the winter's work was\nover, he returned to them, to remain until the falling of the leaves\nrecalled him to the forest. Frank loved and admired his father to the\nutmost of his ability; and when in his coolest, calmest moods he realized\nthat there was small possibility of his ever sailing the Spanish main\nlike Amyas Leigh, or exploring the interior of Africa like Livingstone,\nhe felt quite settled in his own mind that, following in his father's\nfootsteps, he would adopt lumbering as his business. 'Tis true, his\nfather was only an agent or foreman, and might never be anything more;\nbut even that was not to be despised, and then, with a little extra good\nfortune, he might in time become an owner of \"limits\" and mills himself.\nWhy not? Many another boy had thus risen into wealth and importance. He\nhad at least the right to try.\n\nFifteen in October, and in the highest class, this was to be Frank's last\nwinter at school; and before leaving for the woods his father had\nenjoined upon him to make the best of it, as after the summer holidays\nwere over he would have to \"cease learning, and begin earning.\" Frank was\nrather glad to hear this. He was beginning to think he had grown too big\nfor school, and ought to be doing something more directly remunerative.\nPoor boy! Could he have guessed that those were the last words he would\nhear from his dear father's lips, how differently would they have\naffected him! Calumet never saw Mr. Kingston again. In returning alone to\nthe depot from a distant shanty, he was caught in a fierce and sudden\nsnowstorm. The little-travelled road through the forest was soon\nobliterated. Blinded and bewildered by the pitiless storm beating in\ntheir faces, both man and beast lost their way, and, wandering about\nuntil all strength was spent, lay down to die in the drifts that quickly\nhid their bodies from sight. It was many days before they were found,\nlying together, close wrapped in their winding-sheet of snow.\n\nMrs. Kingston bore the dreadful trial with the fortitude and submissive\ngrace that only a serene and unmurmuring faith can give. Frank was more\ndemonstrative in his grief, and disposed to rebel against so cruel a\ncalamity. But his mother calmed and inspired him, and when the first\nnumbing force of the blow had passed away, they took counsel together as\nto the future. This was dark and uncertain enough. All that was left to\nthem was the little cottage in which they lived. Mr. Kingston's salary\nhad not been large, and only by careful management had the house been\nsecured. Of kind and sympathizing friends there was no lack, but they\nwere mostly people in moderate circumstances, like themselves, from whom\nnothing more than sympathy could be expected.\n\nThere was no alternative but that Frank should begin at once to earn his\nown living, and thus the conversation came about with which this chapter\nbegan, and which brought forth the reply from Frank that evidently gave\nhis mother deep concern.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE CHOICE OF AN OCCUPATION.\n\n\nThe fact was that Mrs. Kingston felt a strong repugnance to her son's\nfollowing in his father's footsteps, so far as his occupation was\nconcerned. She dreaded the danger that was inseparable from it, and\nshrank from the idea of giving up the boy, whose company was now the\nchief delight of her life, for all the long winter months that would be\nso dreary without him.\n\nFrank had some inkling of his mother's feelings, but, boy like, thought\nof them as only the natural nervousness of womankind; and his heart being\nset upon going to the woods, he was not very open to argument.\n\n\"Why don't you want me to go lumbering, mother?\" he inquired in a tone\nthat had a touch of petulance in it. \"I've got to do something for\nmyself, and I detest shopkeeping. It's not in my line at all. Fellows\nlike Tom Clemon and Jack Stoner may find it suits them, but I can't bear\nthe idea of being shut up in a shop or office all day. I want to be out\nof doors. That's the kind of life for me.\"\n\nMrs. Kingston gave a sigh that was a presage of defeat as she regarded\nher son standing before her, his handsome face flushed with eagerness and\nhis eyes flashing with determination.\n\n\"But, Frank dear,\" said she gently, \"have you thought how dreadfully\nlonely it will be for me living all alone here during the long\nwinter--your father gone from me, and you away off in the woods, where I\ncan never get to you or you to me?\"\n\nThe flush on Frank's face deepened and extended until it covered forehead\nand neck with its crimson glow. He had not taken this view of the case\ninto consideration before, and his tender heart reproached him for so\nforgetting his mother while laying out his own plans. He sprang forward,\nand kneeling down beside the lounge, threw his arms about his mother's\nneck and clasped her fondly, finding it hard to keep the tears back as he\nsaid,--\n\n\"You dear, darling mother! I have been selfish. I should have thought how\nlonely it would be for you in the winter time.\"\n\nMrs. Kingston returned the embrace with no less fervour, and as usually\nhappens where the other side seems to be giving way, began to weaken\nsomewhat herself, and to feel a little doubtful as to whether, after all,\nit would be right to oppose her son's wishes when his inclinations toward\nthe occupation he had chosen were evidently so very decided.\n\n\"Well, Frank dear,\" she said after a pause, while Frank looked at her\nexpectantly, \"I don't want to be selfish either. If it were not for the\nway we lost your father, perhaps I should not have such a dread of the\nwoods for you; and no doubt even then it is foolish for me to give way to\nit. We won't decide the matter now. If you do go to the woods, it won't\nbe until the autumn, and perhaps during the summer something will turn up\nthat will please us better. We will leave the matter in God's hands. He\nwill bring it to pass in the way that will be best for us both, I am\nconfident.\"\n\nSo with that understanding the matter rested, although of course it was\ncontinually being referred to as the weeks slipped by and the summer\nwaxed and waned. Although Frank felt quite convinced in his own mind that\nhe was not cut out for a position behind a desk or counter, he determined\nto make the experiment, and accordingly applied to Squire Eagleson, who\nkept the principal shop and was the \"big man\" of the village, for a place\nin his establishment. Summer being the squire's busy season, and Frank\nbeing well known to him, he was glad enough to add to his small staff of\nclerks so promising a recruit, especially as, taking advantage of the\nboy's ignorance of business affairs, he was able to engage him at wages\nmuch below his actual worth to him. This the worthy squire regarded as\nquite a fine stroke of business, and told it to his wife with great\ngusto, rubbing his fat hands complacently together as he chuckled over\nhis shrewdness.\n\n\"Bright boy that Frank Kingston! Writes a good fist, and can run up a row\nof figures like smoke. Mighty civil, too, and sharp. And all for seven\nshillings a week! Ha, ha, ha! Wish I could make as good a bargain as that\nevery day.\" And the squire looked the picture of virtuous content as he\nleaned back in his big chair to enjoy the situation.\n\nMrs. Eagleson did not often venture to intermeddle in her husband's\nbusiness affairs, although frequently she became aware of things which\nshe could not reconcile with her conscience. But this time she was moved\nto speak by an impulse she could not control. She knew the Kingstons, and\nhad always thought well of them. Mrs. Kingston seemed to her in many\nrespects a model woman, who deserved well of everybody; and that her\nhusband, who was so well-to-do, should take any advantage of these worthy\npeople who had so little, touched her to the quick. There was a bright\nspot on the centre of her pale cheeks and an unaccustomed ring in her\nvoice as she exclaimed, with a sharpness that made her husband give quite\na start of surprise,--\n\n\"Do you mean to tell me, Daniel, that you've been mean enough to take\nadvantage of that boy who has to support his widowed mother, and to hire\nhim for half the wages he's worth, just because he didn't know any\nbetter? And then you come home here and boast of it! Have you no\nconscience?\"\n\nThe squire was so taken aback by this unexpected attack that at first he\nhardly knew how to meet it. Should he lecture his wife for her\npresumption in meddling in his affairs, which were quite beyond her\ncomprehension as a woman, or should he make light of the matter and laugh\nit off? After a moment's reflection he decided on the latter course.\n\n\"Hoity, toity, Mrs. Eagleson! but what's set you so suddenly on fire?\nBusiness is business, you know, and if Frank Kingston did not know enough\nto ask for more wades, it wasn't my concern to enlighten him.\"\n\nMrs. Eagleson rose from her chair and came over and stood in front of her\nhusband, pointing her long, thin forefinger at him as, with a trembling\nyet scornful voice, she addressed him thus,--\n\n\"Daniel, how you can kneel down and ask the blessing of God upon such\ndoings is beyond me, or how your head can lie easy on your pillow when\nyou know that you are taking the bread out of that poor lone widow's\nmouth it is not for me to say. But this I will say, whether you like it\nor not: if you are not ashamed of yourself, I am for you.\" And before the\nnow much-disturbed squire had time to say another word in his defence the\nspeaker had swept indignantly out of his presence and hastened to her own\nroom, there to throw herself down upon the bed and burst into a passion\nof tears, for she was at best but a weak-nerved woman.\n\nLeft to himself, the squire shifted about uneasily in his chair, and then\nrose and stumped angrily to the window.\n\n\"What does she know about business?\" he muttered. \"If she were to have\nher own way at the store, she'd ruin me in a twelvemonth.\"\n\nYet Mrs. Eagleson's brave outburst was not in vain. Somehow or other\nafter it the squire never felt comfortable in his mind until, much to\nFrank's surprise and delight, he one day called him to him, and, with an\nair of great generosity and patronage, said,--\n\n\"See here, my lad. You seem to be doing your work real well, so I am\ngoing to give you half-a-crown a week more just to encourage you, and\nthen if a little extra work comes along\"--for autumn was approaching--\"ye\nwon't mind tackling it with a goodwill; eh?\"\n\nFrank thanked his employer very heartily, and this unexpected increase of\nearnings and his mother's joy over it for a time almost reconciled him to\nthe work at the shop, which he liked less and less the longer he was at\nit.\n\nThe fact of the matter was, a place behind the counter was uncongenial to\nhim in many ways. There was too much in-doors about it, to begin with.\nFrom early morning until late evening he had to be at his post, with\nbrief intervals for meals; and the colour was leaving his cheeks, and his\nmuscles were growing slack and soft, owing to the constant confinement.\n\nBut this was the least of his troubles. A still more serious matter\nwas that his conscience did not suffer him to take kindly to the \"tricks\nof the trade,\" in which his employer was a \"passed master\" and his\nfellow-clerks very promising pupils. He could not find it in his heart to\ndepreciate the quality of Widow Perkins's butter, or to cajole unwary Sam\nStruthers, from the backlands, into taking a shop-worn remnant for the\nnew dress his wife had so carefully commissioned him to buy. His idea of\ntrade was that you should deal with others as fairly as you would have\nthem deal with you; and while, of course, according to the squire's\nphilosophy, you could never make a full purse that way, still you could\nat least have a clear conscience, which surely was the more desirable\nafter all.\n\nThe squire had noticed Frank's \"pernickety nonsense,\" as he was pleased\nto call it, and at first gave him several broad hints as to the better\nmode of doing business; but finding that the lad was firm, and would no\ndoubt give up his place rather than learn these \"business ways,\" he had\nthe good sense to let him alone, finding in his quickness, fidelity, and\nattention to his work sufficient compensation for this deficiency in\nbargaining acumen.\n\n\"You'll be content to stay at the shop now, won't you, Frank?\" said his\nmother as they talked over the welcome and much-needed rise of salary.\n\n\"It does seem to make it easier to stay, mother,\" answered Frank.\n\"But--\" And he gave a big sigh, and stopped.\n\n\"But what, dear?\" asked Mrs. Kingston, tenderly.\n\nFrank was slow in answering. He evidently felt reluctant to bring up the\nmatter again, and yet his mind was full of it.\n\n\"But what, Frank?\" repeated his mother, taking his hands in hers and\nlooking earnestly into his face.\n\n\"Well, mother, it's no use pretending. I'm not cut out for keeping shop,\nand I'll never be much good at it. I don't like being in-doors all day.\nAnd then, if you want to get on, you've got to do all sorts of things\nthat are nothing else but downright mean; and I don't like that either.\"\nAnd then Frank went on to tell of some of the tricks and stratagems the\nsquire or the other clerks would resort to in order to make a good\nbargain.\n\nMrs. Kingston listened with profound attention. More than once of late,\nas she noticed her son's growing pallor and loss of spirits, she had\nasked herself whether she were not doing wrong in seeking to turn him\naside from the life for which he longed; and now that he was finding\nfresh and fatal objections to the occupation he had chosen in deference\nto her wishes, she began to relent of her insistence, and to feel more\ndisposed to discuss the question again. But before doing so she wished to\nask the advice of a friend in whom she placed much confidence, and so for\nthe present she contented herself with applauding Frank for his\nconscientiousness, and assuring him that she would a thousand times\nrather have him always poor than grow rich after the same fashion as\nSquire Eagleson.\n\nThe friend whose advice Mrs. Kingston wished to take was her husband's\nsuccessor as foreman at the depot for the lumber camps--a sensible,\nsteady, reliable young man, who had risen to his present position\nby process of promotion from the bottom, and who was therefore well\nqualified to give her just the counsel she desired. At the first\nopportunity, therefore, she went over to Mr. Stewart's cottage, and,\nfinding him at home, opened her heart fully to him. Mr. Stewart, or Alec\nStewart, as he was generally called, listened with ready sympathy to what\nMrs. Kingston had to say, and showed much interest in the matter, for he\nhad held a high opinion of his former chief, and knew Frank well enough\nto admire his spirit and character.\n\n\"Well, you see, Mrs. Kingston, it's just this way,\" said he, when his\nvisitor had stated the case upon which she wanted his opinion: \"if\nFrank's got his heart so set upon going into the woods, I don't know as\nthere's any use trying to cross him. He won't take kindly to anything\nelse while he's thinking of that; and he'd a big sight better be a good\nlumberman than a poor clerk, don't you think?\"\n\nMrs. Kingston felt the force of this reasoning, yet could hardly make up\nher mind to yield to it at once.\n\n\"But, Mr. Stewart,\" she urged, \"it may only be a boyish notion of\nFrank's. He thinks, perhaps, he'd like it because that's what his father\nwas before him, and then he may find his mistake.\"\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Kingston,\" replied Mr. Stewart, \"if you think there's any\nchance of that being the case, we can settle the question right enough in\nthis way:--Let Frank come to the woods with me this winter. I will give\nhim a berth as chore-boy in one of the camps; and if that doesn't sicken\nhim of the business, then all I can say is you'd better let the lad have\nhis will.\"\n\nMrs. Kingston sighed.\n\n\"I suppose you're right. I don't quite like the idea of his being\nchore-boy; but if he's really in earnest, there's no better way of\nproving him.\"\n\nNow Frank knew well enough how humble was the position of \"chore-boy\" in\na lumber camp. It meant that he would be the boy-of-all-work; that he\nwould have to be up long before dawn, and be one of the last in the camp\nto get into his bunk; that he would have to help the cook, take messages\nfor the foreman, be obliging to the men, and altogether do his best to be\ngenerally useful. Yet he did not shrink from the prospect. The idea of\nrelease from the uncongenial routine of shopkeeping filled him with\nhappiness, and his mother was almost reconciled to letting him go from\nher, so marked was the change in his spirits.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nOFF TO THE WOODS.\n\n\nSeptember, the finest of all the months in the Canadian calendar, was at\nhand, as the sumac and the maple took evident delight in telling by their\nlovely tints of red and gold, and the hot, enervating breath of summer\nhad yielded to the inspiring coolness of early autumn. The village of\nCalumet fairly bubbled over with business and bustle. Preparations for\nthe winter's work were being made on all sides. During the course of the\nnext two weeks or so a large number of men would be leaving their homes\nfor the lumber camps, and the chief subject of conversation in all\ncircles was the fascinating and romantic occupation in which they were\nengaged.\n\nNo one was more busy than Mrs. Kingston. Even if her son was to be only a\nchore-boy, his equipment should be as comfortable and complete as though\nhe were going to be a foreman. She knew very well that Jack Frost has no\ncompunctions about sending the thermometer away down thirty or forty\ndegrees below zero in those far-away forest depths; and whatever other\nhardships Frank might be called upon to endure, it was very well settled\nin her mind that he should not suffer for lack of warm clothing.\nAccordingly, the knitting-needles and sewing-needles had been plied\nindustriously from the day his going into the woods was decided upon; and\nnow that the time for departure drew near, the result was to be seen in a\nchest filled with such thick warm stockings, shirts, mittens, and\ncomforters, besides a good outfit of other clothing, that Frank, looking\nthem over with a keen appreciation of their merits and of the loving\nskill they evidenced, turned to his mother, saying, with a grateful\nsmile,--\n\n\"Why, mother, you've fitted me out as though I were going to the North\nPole.\"\n\n\"You'll need them all, my dear, before the winter's over,\" said Mrs.\nKingston, the tears rising in her eyes, as involuntarily she thought of\nhow the cruel cold had taken from her the father of the bright, hopeful\nboy before her. \"Your father never thought I provided too many warm\nthings for him.\"\n\nFrank was in great spirits. He had resigned his clerkship at Squire\nEagleson's, much to that worthy merchant's regret. The squire looked upon\nhim as a very foolish fellow to give up a position in his shop, where he\nhad such good opportunities of learning business ways, in order to go\n\"galivanting off to the woods,\" where his good writing and correct\nfiguring would be of no account.\n\nFrank said nothing about his decided objections to the squire's ideas of\nbusiness ways and methods, but contented himself with stating\nrespectfully his strong preference for out-door life, and his intention\nto make lumbering his occupation, as it had been his father's before him.\n\n\"Well, well, my lad,\" said the squire, when he saw there was no moving\nhim, \"have your own way. I reckon you'll be glad enough to come back to\nme in the spring. One winter in the camps will be all you'll want.\"\n\nFrank left the squire, saying to himself as he went out from the shop:--\n\n\"If I do get sick of the camp and want a situation in the spring, this\nis not the place I'll come to for it; you can depend upon that, Squire\nEagleson. Many thanks to you, all the same.\"\n\nMr. Stewart was going up to the depot the first week in September, to\nget matters in readiness for the men who would follow him a week later,\nand much to Frank's satisfaction he announced that he would take him\nalong if he could be ready in time. Thanks to Mrs. Kingston's being of\nthe fore-handed kind, nothing was lacking in her son's preparations, and\nthe day of departure was anticipated with great eagerness by him, and\nwith much sinking of heart by her.\n\nThe evening previous mother and son had a long talk together, in the\ncourse of which she impressed upon him the absolute importance of his\nmaking no disguise of his religious principles.\n\n\"You'll be the youngest in the camp, perhaps, Frank darling, and it will,\nno doubt, be very hard for you to read your Bible and say your prayers,\nas you've always done here at home. But the braver you are about it at\nfirst, the easier it'll be in the end. Take your stand at the very start.\nLet the shanty men see that you're not afraid to confess yourself a\nChristian, and rough and wicked as they may be, never fear but they'll\nrespect you for it.\"\n\nMrs. Kingston spoke with an earnestness and emphasis that went straight\nto Frank's heart. He had perfect faith in his mother. In his eyes she was\nwithout fault or failing, and he knew very well that she was asking\nnothing of him that she was not altogether ready to do herself, were she\nto be put in his place. Not only so. His own shrewd sense confirmed the\nwisdom of her words. There could be no half-way position for him at the\nlumber camp; no half-hearted serving of God would be of any use there. He\nmust take Caleb for his pattern, and follow the Lord wholly. His voice\nwas low, but full of quiet determination, as he answered,--\n\n\"I know it, mother. It won't be easy, but I'm not afraid. I'll begin fair\nand let the others know just where I stand, and they may say or do what\nthey like.\"\n\nMrs. Kingston needed no further assurance to make her mind quite easy\nupon this point; and she took no small comfort from the thought that,\nfaithful and consistent as she felt so confident Frank would be, despite\nthe many trials and temptations inseparable from his new sphere of life,\nhe could hardly fail to exercise some good influence upon those about\nhim, and perhaps prove a very decided power for good among the rough men\nof the lumber camp.\n\nThe day of departure dawned clear and bright. The air was cool and\nbracing, the ground glistened with the heavy autumn dew that the sun had\nnot yet had time to drink up, and the village was not fairly astir for\nthe day when Mr. Stewart drove up to Mrs. Kingston's door for his young\npassenger. He was not kept long waiting, for Frank had been ready fully\nhalf-an-hour beforehand, and all that remained to be done was to bid his\nmother \"good-bye,\" until he should return with the spring floods.\nOverflowing with joy as he was at the realization of his desire, yet he\nwas too fond a son not to feel keenly the parting with his mother, and\nhe bustled about very vigorously, stowing away his things in the back of\nthe waggon, as the best way of keeping himself under control.\n\nHe had a good deal of luggage for a boy. First, of all, there was his\nchest packed tight with warm clothing; then another box heavy with cake,\npreserves, pickles, and other home-made dainties, wherewith to vary the\nmonotony of shanty fare; then a big bundle containing a wool mattress, a\npillow, two pairs of heavy blankets, and a thick comforter to insure his\nsleep being undisturbed by saucy Jack Frost; and finally, a narrow box\nmade by his own father to carry the light rifle that always accompanied\nhim, together with a plentiful supply of ammunition. In this box Frank\nwas particularly interested, for he had learned to handle this rifle\npretty well during the summer, and looked forward to accomplishing great\nthings with it when he got into the woods.\n\nMr. Stewart laughed when he saw all that Frank was taking with him.\n\n\"I guess you'll be the swell of the camp, and make all the other fellows\nwish they had a mother to fit them out. It's a fortunate thing my\nwaggon's roomy, or we'd have to leave some of your stuff to come up by\none of the teams,\" said he.\n\nMrs. Kingston was about to make apologies for the size of Frank's outfit,\nbut Mr. Stewart stopped her.\n\n\"It's all right, Mrs. Kingston. The lad might just as well be comfortable\nas not. He'll have plenty of roughing it, anyway. And now we've got it\nall on board, we must be starting.\"\n\nThe moment Mrs. Kingston dreaded had now come. Throwing her arms around\nFrank's neck, she clasped him passionately to her heart again and again,\nand then, tearing herself away from him, rushed up the steps as if she\ndared not trust herself any longer. Gulping down the big lump that rose\ninto his throat, Frank sprang up beside Mr. Stewart, and the next moment\nthey were off. But before they turned the corner Frank, looking back,\ncaught sight of his mother standing in the doorway, and taking off his\ncap he gave her a farewell salute, calling out rather huskily his last\n\"good-bye\" as the swiftly-moving waggon bore him away.\n\nMr. Stewart took much pride in his turn-out, and with good reason; for\nthere was not a finer pair of horses in Calumet than those that were now\ntrotting along before him, as if the well-filled waggon to which they\nwere attached was no impediment whatever. His work required him to be\nmuch upon the road in all seasons, and he considered it well worth his\nwhile to make the business of driving about as pleasant as possible. The\nhorses were iron-grays, beautifully matched in size, shape, and speed;\nthe harness sparkled with bright brass mountings; and the waggon, a kind\nof express, with specially strong springs and comfortable seat, had\nabundant room for passengers and luggage.\n\nAs they rattled along the village street there were many shouts of\n\"Good-bye, Frank,\" and \"Good luck to you,\" from shop and sidewalk; for\neverybody knew Frank's destination, and there were none that did not wish\nhim well, whatever might be their opinion of the wisdom of his action. In\nresponding to these expressions of good-will, Frank found timely relief\nfor the feelings stirred by the parting with his mother, and before the\nimpatient grays had breasted the hill which began where the village ended\nhe had quite regained his customary good spirits, and was ready to reply\nbrightly enough to Mr. Stewart's remarks.\n\n\"Well, Frank, you've put your hand to the plough now, as the Scripture\nsays, and you mustn't turn back on any account, or all the village will\nbe laughing at you,\" he said, scanning his companion closely.\n\n\"Not much fear of that, Mr. Stewart,\" answered Frank firmly. \"Calumet\nwon't see me again until next spring. Whether I like the lumbering or\nnot, I'm going to stick out the winter, anyway; you see if I don't.\"\n\n\"I haven't much fear of you, my boy,\" returned Mr. Stewart, \"even if you\ndo find shanty life a good deal rougher than you may have imagined.\nYou'll have to fight your own way, you know. I shan't be around much, and\nthe other men will all be strangers at first; but just you do what you\nknow and feel to be right without minding the others, and they won't\nbother you long, but will respect you for having a conscience and the\npluck to obey it. As for your work, it'll seem pretty heavy and hard at\nthe start; but you've got lots of grit, and it won't take you long to get\nused to it.\"\n\nFrank listened attentively to Mr. Stewart's kindly, sensible advice, and\nhad many questions to ask him as the speedy horses bore them further and\nfurther away from Calumet. The farms, which at first had followed one\nanother in close succession, grew more widely apart, and finally ended\naltogether before many miles of the dusty road had been covered, and\nthenceforward their way ran through unbroken woods, not the stately\n\"forest primeval\" but the scrubby \"second growth,\" from which those who\nhave never been into the heart of the leafy wilderness can form but a\npoor conception of the grandeur to which trees can attain.\n\nAbout mid-day they halted at a lonely log-house which served as a sort of\ninn or resting-place, the proprietor finding compensation for the\ndreariness of his situation in the large profit derived from an illegal\nbut thriving traffic in liquor. A more unkempt, unattractive\nestablishment could hardly be imagined, and if rumour was to be relied\nupon, it had good reason to be haunted by more than one untimely ghost.\n\n\"A wretched den!\" said Mr. Stewart, as he drew up before the door. \"I\nwouldn't think of stopping here for a moment but for the horses. But we\nmay as well go in and see if old Pierre can get us a decent bite to eat.\"\n\nThe horses having been attended to, the travellers entered the house,\nwhere they found Pierre, the proprietor, dozing on his bar; a bloated,\nblear-eyed creature, who evidently would have much preferred making them\ndrunk with his vile whisky to preparing them any pretence for a dinner.\nBut they firmly declined his liquor, so muttering unintelligibly to\nhimself he shambled off to obey their behests. After some delay they\nsucceeded in getting a miserable meal of some kind; and then, the horses\nbeing sufficiently rested, they set off once more at a good pace, not\nhalting again until, just before sundown, they arrived at the depot,\nwhere the first stage of their journey ended.\n\nThis depot was simply a large farm set in the midst of a wilderness of\ntrees, and forming a centre from which some half-dozen shanties, or\nlumber camps, placed at different distances in the depths of the\nforest that stretched away interminably north, south, east, and west,\nwere supplied with all that was necessary for their maintenance. Besides\nthe ordinary farm buildings, there was another which served as a sort of\na shop or warehouse, being filled with a stock of axes, saws, blankets,\nboots, beef, pork, tea, sugar, molasses, flour, and so forth, for the use\nof the lumbermen. This was Mr. Stewart's headquarters, and as the tired\nhorses drew up before the door he tossed the reins over their backs,\nsaying,--\n\n\"Here we are, Frank. You'll stay here until your gang is made up.\nTo-morrow morning I'll introduce you to some of your mates.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE BUILDING OF THE SHANTY.\n\n\nFrank looked about him with quick curiosity, expecting to see some of the\nmen in whose society he was to spend the jointer. But there were only the\nfarm-hands lounging listlessly about, their days work being over, and\nthey had nothing to do except to smoke their pipes and wait for\nnightfall, when they would lounge off to bed.\n\nThe shantymen had not yet arrived, Mr. Stewart always making a point of\nbeing at the depot some days in advance of them, in order to have plenty\nof time to prepare his plans for the winter campaign. Noting Frank's\ninquiring look, he laughed, and said,--\n\n\"Oh, there are none of them here yet--we're the first on the field-but by\nthe end of the week there'll be more than a hundred men here.\"\n\nA day or two later the first batch made their appearance, coming up by\nthe heavy teams that they would take with them into the woods; and each\nday brought a fresh contingent, until by the time Mr. Stewart had\nmentioned the farm fairly swarmed with them, and it became necessary for\nthis human hive to imitate the bees and send off its superfluous\ninhabitants without delay.\n\nThey were a rough, noisy, strange-looking lot of men, and Frank, whose\nacquaintance with the shantymen had been limited to seeing them in small\ngroups as they passed through Calumet in the autumn and spring, on their\nway to and from the camps, meeting them now for the first time in such\nlarge numbers, could not help some inward shrinking of soul as he noted\ntheir uncouth ways and listened to their oath-besprinkled talk. They\nwere \"all sorts and conditions of men\"--habitants who could not speak a\nword of English, and Irishmen who could not speak a word of French;\nshrewd Scotchmen, chary of tongue and reserved of manner, and loquacious\nhalf-breeds, ready for song, or story, or fight, according to the humour\nof the moment. Here and there were dusky skins and prominent features\nthat betrayed a close connection with the aboriginal owners of this\ncontinent. Almost all bad come from the big saw-mills away down the\nriver, or from some other equally arduous employment, and were glad of\nthe chance of a few days' respite from work while Mr. Stewart was\ndividing them up and making the necessary arrangements for the winter's\nwork.\n\nFrank mingled freely with them, scraping acquaintance with those who\nseemed disposed to be friendly, and whenever he came across one with an\nhonest, pleasant, prepossessing face, hoping very much that he would be a\nmember of his gang. He was much impressed by the fact that he was\nevidently the youngest member of the gathering, and did not fail to\nnotice the sometimes curious, sometimes contemptuous, looks with which he\nwas regarded by the fresh arrivals.\n\nIn the course of a few days matters were pretty well straightened out at\nthe depot, and the gangs of men began to leave for the different camps.\nMr. Stewart had promised Frank that he would take care to put him under a\nforeman who would treat him well; and when one evening he was called into\nthe office and introduced to a tall, powerful, grave-looking man, with\nheavy brown beard and deep voice, Mr. Stewart said,--\n\n\"Here is Frank Kingston, Dan; Jack's only son, you know. He's set his\nheart on lumbering, and I'm going to let him try it for a winter.\"\n\nFrank scrutinized the man called Dan very closely as. Mr. Stewart\ncontinued,--\n\n\"I'm going to send him up to the Kippewa camp with you, Dan. There's\nnobody'll look after him better than you will, for I know you thought a\nbig sight of his father, and for his sake as well as mine you'll see that\nnothing happens to the lad.\"\n\nDan Johnston's face relaxed into a smile that showed there were rich\ndepths of good nature beneath his rather stern exterior, for he was\npleased at the compliment implied in the superintendent's words, and\nstretching out a mighty hand to Frank, he laid it on his shoulder in a\nkindly way, saying,--\n\n\"He seems a likely lad, Mr. Stewart, and a chip of the old block, if I'm\nnot mistaken. I'll be right glad to have him with me. But what kind of\nwork is he to go at? He seems rather light for chopping, doesn't he?\"\n\nMr. Stewart gave a quizzical sort of glance at Frank as he replied,--\n\n\"Well, you see, Dan, I think myself he is too light for chopping, so I\ntold him he'd have to be chore-boy for this winter, anyway.\"\n\nA look of surprise came over Johnston's face, and, more to himself than\nthe others, he muttered in a low tone,--\n\n\"Chore-boy, eh? Jack Kingston's son a chore-boy!\" Then turning to Frank,\nhe said aloud, \"All right, my boy. There's nothing like beginning at\nthe bottom if you want to learn the whole business. You must make up your\nmind to put in a pretty hard time, but I'll see you have fair play,\nanyway.\"\n\nAs Frank looked at the rugged, honest, determined face, and the stalwart\nframe, he felt thoroughly satisfied that in Dan Johnston he had a friend\nin whom he could place perfect confidence, and that Mr. Stewart's promise\nhad been fully kept. The foreman then became quite sociable, and asked\nhim many questions about his mother, and his life in Calumet, and his\nplans for the future, so that before they parted for the night Frank felt\nas if they were quite old friends instead of recent acquaintances.\n\nThe following morning Johnston was bestirring himself bright and early\ngetting his men and stores together, and before noon a start was made for\nthe Kippewa River, on whose southern bank a site had already been\nselected for the lumber camp which would be the centre of his operations\nfor the winter. Johnston's gang numbered fifty men all told, himself\nincluded, and they were in high spirits as they set out for their\ndestination. The stores and tools were, of course, transported by waggon;\nbut the men had to go on foot, and with fifteen miles of a rough forest\nroad to cover before sundown, they struck a brisk pace as, in twos and\nthrees and quartettes, they marched noisily along the dusty road.\n\n\"You stay by me, Frank,\" said the foreman, \"and if your young legs happen\nto go back on you, you can have a lift on one of the teams until you're\nrested.\"\n\nFrank felt in such fine trim that although he fully appreciated his big\nfriend's thoughtfulness, he was rash enough to think he would not require\nto avail himself of it; but the next five miles showed him his mistake,\nand at the end of them he was very glad to jump upon one of the teams\nthat happened to be passing, and in this way hastened over a good part of\nthe remainder of the tramp.\n\nAs the odd-looking gang pushed forward steadily, if not in exactly\nmartial order, Frank had a good opportunity of inspecting its members,\nand making in his own mind an estimate of their probable good of bad\nqualities as companions. In this he was much assisted by the foreman,\nwho, in reply to his questions, gave him helpful bits of information\nabout the different ones that attracted his attention. Fully one-half\nof the gang were French Canadians, dark-complexioned, black-haired,\nbright-eyed men, full of life and talk, their tongues going unceasingly\nas they plodded along in sociable groups. Of the remainder, some were\nScotch, others Irish, the rest English. Upon the whole, they were quite a\npromising-looking lot of men; indeed, Johnston took very good care to\nhave as little \"poor stuff\" as possible in his gang; for he had long held\nthe reputation of turning out more logs at his camp than were cut at any\nother on the same \"limits;\" and this well-deserved fame he cherished very\ndearly.\n\nDarkness was coming on apace, when at last a glad shout from the foremost\ngroup announced that the end of the journey was near; and in a few\nminutes more the whole band of tired men were resting their wearied limbs\non the bank of the river near which the shanty was to be erected at once.\nThe teams had arrived some time before them, and two large tents had been\nput up as temporary-shelter; while brightly-burning fires and the\nappetizing fizzle of frying bacon joined with the wholesome aroma of hot\ntea to make glad the hearts of the dusty, hungry pedestrians.\n\nFrank enjoyed his open-air tea immensely. It was his first taste of real\nlumberman's life, and was undoubtedly a pleasant introduction to it; for\nthe hard work would not begin until the morrow, and in the meantime\neverybody was still a-holidaying. So refreshing was the evening meal\nthat, tired as all no doubt felt from their long tramp, they soon forgot\nit sufficiently to spend an hour or more in song and chorus that made the\nvast forest aisles re-echo with rough melody before they sank into the\nsilence of slumber for the night.\n\nAt daybreak next morning Dan Johnston's stentorian voice aroused the\nsleepers, and Frank could hardly believe that he had taken more than\ntwice forty winks at the most before the stirring shout of \"Turn out!\nturn out! The work's waiting!\" broke into his dreams and recalled him to\nlife's realities. The morning was gray and chilly, the men looked\nsleepy and out of humour, and Johnston himself had it a stern distant\nmanner, or seemed to have, as after a wash at the river bank Frank\napproached him and reported himself for duty.\n\n\"Will you please to tell me what is to be my work, Mr. Johnston?\" said\nhe, in quite a timid tone; for somehow or other there seemed to be a\nchange in the atmosphere.\n\nThe foreman's face relaxed a little as he turned to answer him.\n\n\"You want to be set to work, eh? Well, that won't take long.\" And looking\naround among the moving men until he found the one he wanted, he raised\nhis voice and called,--\n\n\"Hi, there, Baptiste! Come here a moment.\"\n\nIn response to the summons a short, stout, smooth-faced, and decidedly\ngood-natured looking Frenchman, who had been busy at one of the fires,\ncame over to the foreman.\n\n\"See here, Baptiste; this lad's to be your chore-boy this winter, and I\ndon't want you to be too hard on him--_savez?_ Let him have plenty of\nwork, but not more than his share.\"\n\nBaptiste examined Frank's sturdy figure with much the same smile of\napproval that he might bestow upon a fine capon that he was preparing for\nthe pot, and murmured out something like,--\n\n\"_Bien, m'sieur_. I sall be easy wid him if ee's a good boy.\"\n\nThe foreman then said to Frank,--\n\n\"There, Frank, go with Baptiste, and he'll give you work enough.\"\n\nSo Frank went dutifully off with the Frenchman.\n\nHe soon found out what his work was to be. Baptiste was cook, and he was\nhis assistant, not so much in the actual cooking, for Baptiste looked\nafter that himself, but in the scouring of the pots and pans, the keeping\nup of the fires, the setting out of the food, and such other\nsupplementary duties. Not very dignified or inspiring employment,\ncertainly, especially for a boy \"with a turn for books and figures.\" But\nFrank had come to the camp prepared to undertake, without a murmur, any\nwork within his powers that might be given him, and he now went quietly\nand steadily at what was required of him.\n\nAs soon as breakfast was despatched, Johnston called the men together to\ngive them directions about the building of the shanty, which was the\nfirst thing of all to be done; and having divided them up into parties,\nto each of which a different task was assigned, he set them at work\nwithout delay.\n\nFrank was very glad that attention to his duties would not prevent his\nwatching the others at theirs; for what could be more interesting than to\nstudy every stage of the erection of the building that was to be their\nshelter and home during the long winter months now rapidly approaching?\nIt was a first experience for him, and nothing escaped his vigilant eye.\nThis is the way he described the building of the shanty to his mother on\nhis return to Calumet:--\n\n\"You see, mother, everybody except Baptiste and myself took a hand, and\njust worked like beavers. I wish you could have seen the men. And Mr.\nJohnston--why, he was in two places at once most of the time, or at least\nseemed to be! It was grand fun watching them. The first thing they did\nwas to cut down a lot of trees--splendid big fellows, that would make the\ntrees round here look pretty small, I can tell you. Then they chopped off\nall the branches and cut up the trunks into the lengths that suited, and\nlaid them one on the top of the other until they made a wall about as\nhigh as Mr. Johnston, or perhaps higher, in the shape of one big room\nforty feet long by thirty feet wide, Mr. Johnston said. It looked very\nfunny then--just like a huge pig-pen, with no windows and only one\ndoor--on the side that faced the river. Next day they laid long timbers\nacross the top of the wall, resting them in the middle on four great\nposts they called 'scoop-bearers.' Funny name, isn't it? But they called\nthem that because they bear the 'scoops' that make the roof; and a grand\nroof it is, I tell you. The scoops are small logs hollowed out on one\nside and flat on the other; and they lay them on the cross timbers in\nsuch a way that the edges of one fit into the hollows of two others, so\nthat the rain hasn't a chance to get in, no matter how bard it tries.\nNext thing they made the floor; and that wasn't a hard job, for they just\nmade logs flat on two sides and laid them on the ground, so that it was a\npretty rough sort of a floor. All the cracks were stuffed tight with moss\nand mud, and a big bank of earth thrown up around the bottom of the wall\nto keep the draught out.\n\n\"But you should have seen the beds, or 'bunks,' as they called them, for\nthe men. I don't believe you could ever sleep on them. They were nothing\nbut board platforms all around three sides of the room, built on a slant\nso that your head was higher than your feet; so you see I'd have had\nnothing better than the soft side of a plank for a mattress if you hadn't\nfitted me out with one. And when the other fellows saw how snug I was,\nthey vowed they'd have a soft bed too; so what do you think they did?\nThey gathered an immense quantity of hemlock branches--little soft ones,\nyou know--and spread them thick over the boards, and then they laid\nblankets over that and made a really fine mattress for all. So that, you\nsee, I quite set the fashion. The last thing to be made was the\nfireplace, which has the very queer name of 'caboose,' and is queerer\nthan its name. It is right in the middle of the room, not at one end, and\nis as big as a small room by itself. First of all, a great bank of stones\nand sand is laid on the floor, kept together by boards at the edges; then\na large square hole is cut in the roof above, and a wooden chimney built\non the top of it; and then at two of the corners cranes to hold the pots\nare fixed, and the caboose is complete. And oh, mother, such roaring big\nfires as were always going in it after the cold came--all night long, you\nknow; and sometimes I had to stay awake to keep the fire from going out,\nwhich wasn't much fun, but, of course, I had to take my turn. So now,\nmother, you ought to have a pretty good idea of what our shanty was like;\nfor, besides a table and our chests, there was nothing much else in it to\ndescribe.\"\n\nSuch were Frank Kingston's surroundings as he entered upon the humble\nand laborious duties of chore-boy in Camp Kippewa, not attempting to\nconceal from himself that he would much rather be a chopper or teamster\nor road-maker, but with his mind fully fixed upon doing his work, however\nuncongenial it might be, cheerfully and faithfully for one winter at\nleast, feeling confident that if he did he would not be chore-boy for\nlong, but would in due time be promoted to some more dignified and\nattractive position.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nSTANDING FIRE.\n\n\nThe shanty finished, a huge mass of wood cut into convenient lengths and\npiled near the door, a smooth road made down to the river-bank, the\nstore-house filled with barrels of pork and flour and beans and chests of\ntea, the stable for the score of horses, put up after much the same\narchitectural design as the shanty, and then the lumber camp was\ncomplete, and the men were free to address themselves to the business\nthat had brought them so far.\n\nAs Frank looked around him at the magnificent forests into whose heart\nthey had penetrated, and tried with his eyes to measure the height of the\nsplendid trees that towered above his head on every side, he found\nhimself touched with a feeling of sympathy for them--as if it seemed a\nshame to humble the pride of those silvan monarchs by bringing them\ncrashing to the earth. And then this feeling gave way to another; and as\nhe watched the expert choppers swinging their bright axes in steady\nrhythm, and adding wound to wound in the gaping trunk so skilfully that\nthe defenceless monster fell just where they wished, his heart thrilled\nwith pride at man's easy victory over nature, and he longed to seize an\naxe himself and attack the forest on his own account.\n\nHe had plenty of axe work as it was, but of a much more prosaic kind.\nAn important part of his duty consisted in keeping up the great fire\nthat roared and crackled unceasingly in the caboose. The appetite of this\nfire seemed unappeasable, and many a time did his arms and legs grow\nweary in ministering to its wants. Sometimes, when all his other work was\ndone, he would go out to the wood-pile, and selecting the thickest and\ntoughest-looking logs, arrange them upon the hearth so that they might\ntake as long as possible to burn; and then, congratulating himself that\nhe had secured some respite from toil, get out his rifle for a little\npractice at a mark, or would open one of the few books he had brought\nwith him. But it seemed to him he would hardly have more than one shot at\nthe mark, or get through half-a-dozen pages, before Baptiste's thick\nvoice would be heard calling out,--\n\n\"Francois, Francois! Ver is yer? Some more wood, k'vick!\" And with a\ngroan poor Frank would have to put away the rifle or book and return\nto the wood-pile.\n\n\"I suppose I'm what the Bible calls a hewer of wood and a drawer of\nwater,\" he would say to himself; for hardly less onerous than the task\nof keeping the fire in fuel was that of keeping well filled the two\nwater-barrels that stood on either side of the door--one for the thirsty\nshantymen, the other for Baptiste's culinary needs.\n\nThe season's work once well started, it went forward with commendable\nsteadiness and vigour under Foreman Johnston's strict and energetic\nmanagement. He was admirably suited for his difficult position. His\ngrave, reserved manner rendered impossible that familiarity which is so\napt to breed contempt, while his thorough mastery of all the secrets of\nwoodcraft, his great physical strength, and his absolute fearlessness\nin the face of any peril, combined to make him a fit master for the\nstrangely-assorted half-hundred of men now under his sole control. Frank\nheld him in profound respect, and would have endured almost anything\nrather than seem unmanly or unheedful in his eyes. To win a word of\ncommendation from those firm-set lips that said so little was the desire\nof his heart, and, feeling sure that it would come time enough, he stuck\nto his work bravely, quite winning good-natured Baptiste's heart by his\nprompt obedience to orders.\n\n\"You are a _bon garcon,_ Francois,\" he would say, patting his shoulder\nwith his plump palm. \"Too good to be chore-boy; but not for long--eh,\nFrancois? You be chopper _bientot_, and then\"--with an expressive wave of\nhis hand to indicate the rapid flight of time--\"you'll be foreman, like\nM'sieur Johnston, while Baptiste\"--and the broad shoulders would rise\nin that meaning shrug which only Frenchmen can achieve--\"poor Baptiste\nwill be cook still.\"\n\nBeginning with Johnston and Baptiste, Frank was rapidly making friends\namong his companions, and as he was soon to learn, much to his surprise\nand sorrow, some enemies too--or, rather, to be more correct, he was\nmaking the friends, but the enemies were making themselves; for he was to\nblame in small part, if at all, for their rising against him. There were\nall sorts and conditions of men, so far at least as character and\ndisposition went, among the gang, and the evil element was fitly\nrepresented by a small group of inhabitants who recognized one Damase\nDeschenaux as their leader. This Damase made rather a striking figure.\nAlthough he scorned the suggestion as hotly as would a Southern planter\nthe charge that <DW64> blood darkened his veins, there was no doubt that\nsome generations back the dusky wife of a _courier du bois_ had mingled\nthe Indian nature with the French. Unhappily for Damase, the result of\nhis ancestral error was manifest in him; for, while bearing but little\noutward resemblance to his savage progenitor, he was at heart a veritable\nIndian.\n\nGreedy, selfish, jealous, treacherous, quick to take offence and slow to\nforgive or forget, his presence in the Johnston gang was explained by his\nwonderful knowledge of the forest, his sure judgment in selecting good\nbunches of timber to be cut, and his intimate acquaintance with the\ncourse of the stream down which the logs would be floated in the spring.\n\nJohnston had no liking for Damase, but found him too valuable to dispense\nwith. This year, by chance, or possibly by his own management, Damase had\namong the gang a number of companions much after his own pattern, and it\nwas clearly his intention to take the lead in the shanty so far as he\ndared venture. When first he saw Frank, and learned that he was to be\nwith Johnston also, he tried after his own fashion to make friends with\nhim. But as might be expected, neither the man himself nor his overtures\nof friendship impressed Frank favourably. He wanted neither a pull from\nhis pocket flask nor a chew from his plug of \"navy,\" nor to handle his\ngreasy cards; and although he declined the offer of all these uncongenial\nthings as politely as possible, the veritable suspicious, sensitive,\nFrench-Indian nature took offence, which deepened day after day, as he\ncould not help seeing that Frank was careful to give himself and\ncompanions as wide a berth as he could without being pointedly rude or\noffensive.\n\nWhen one is seeking to gratify evil feelings toward another with whom he\nhas daily contact, the opportunity is apt to be not long in coming, and\nDamase conceived that he had his chance of venting his spite on Frank by\nseizing upon the habit of Bible reading and prayer which the lad had as\nscrupulously observed in the shanty as if he had been at home. As might\nbe imagined, he was altogether alone in this good custom, and at first\nthe very novelty of it had secured him immunity from pointed notice or\ncomment. But when Damase, thinking he saw in his daily devotions an\nopening for his malicious purposes, drew attention to them by jeering\nremarks and taunting insinuations, the others, yielding to that natural\ntendency to be incensed with any one who seems to assert superior\ngoodness, were inclined to side with him, or at all events to make no\nattempt to interfere.\n\nAt first Damase confined himself to making as much noise as possible\nwhile Frank was reading his Bible or saying his prayers, keeping up a\nconstant fire of remarks that were aimed directly at the much-tried boy,\nand which were sometimes clever or impertinent enough to call forth a\nhearty laugh from his comrades. But finding that Frank was not to be\novercome by this, he resorted to more active measures. Pretending to be\ndancing carelessly about the room he would, as if by accident, bump up\nagainst the object of his enmity, sending the precious book flying on the\nfloor, or, if Frank was kneeling by his bunk, tripping and tumbling\nroughly over his outstretched feet. Another time he knocked the Bible out\nof his hands with a well-aimed missile, and, again, covered him with a\nheavy blanket as he knelt at prayer.\n\nAll this Frank bore in patient silence, hoping in that way to secure\npeace in time. But Damase's persecutions showing no signs of ceasing, the\npoor lad's self-control began to desert him, and at last the crisis came\none night when, while he was kneeling as usual at the foot of his bunk,\nDamase crept up softly behind him, and springing upon his shoulders,\nbrought him sprawling to the floor. In an instant Frank was on his feet,\nand when the others saw his flashing and indignant countenance and\nnoticed his tight-clinched fists, the roar of laughter that greeted his\ndownfall was checked half way, and a sudden silence fell upon them. They\nall expected him to fly at his tormentor like a young tiger, and Damase\nevidently expected it too, for he stepped back a little, and his grinning\nface sobered as he assumed a defensive attitude.\n\nBut Frank had no thought of striking. That was not his way of defending\nhis religion, much as he was willing to endure rather than be unfaithful.\nDrawing himself up to his full height, and looking a splendid type of\nrighteous indignation, he commanded the attention of all as in clear,\nstrong tones, holding his sturdy fists close to his sides as though he\ndared not trust them elsewhere, and looking straight into Damase's eyes,\nlie exclaimed,--\n\n\"Aren't you ashamed to do such an unmanly thing--you, who are twice my\nsize and age? I have done nothing to you. Why should you torment me? And\njust when I want most to be quiet, too!\"\n\nThen, turning to the other men with a gesture of appeal that was\nirresistible, he cried,--\n\n\"Do you think it's fair, fellows, for that man to plague me so when I've\ndone him no harm? Why don't you stop him? You can do it easy enough. He's\nnothing but a big coward.\"\n\nFrank's anger had risen as he spoke, and this last sentence slipped out\nbefore he had time to stop it. No sooner was it uttered than he regretted\nit; but the bolt had been shot, and it went straight to its mark. While\nFrank had been speaking, Damase was too keen of sight and sense not to\nnotice that the manly speech and fine self-control of the boy were\ncausing a quick revulsion of feeling in his hearers, and that unless\ndiverted they would soon be altogether on his side, and the taunt he had\njust flung out awoke a deep murmur of applause which was all that was\nneeded to inflame his passion to the highest pitch. The Frenchman looked\nthe very incarnation of fury as, springing towards Frank with uplifted\nfist, he hissed, rather cried, through his gleaming teeth,--\n\n\"Coward! I teach you call me coward.\"\n\nStepping back a little, Frank threw up his arms in a posture of defence;\nfor he was not without knowledge of what is so oddly termed \"the noble\nart.\"\n\nBut before the blow fell an unlooked-for intervention relieved him from\nthe danger that threatened.\n\nThe foreman, when the shanty was being built, had the farther right-hand\ncorner partitioned off so as to form a sort of cabin just big enough\nto contain his bunk, his chest, and a small rude table on which lay\nthe books in which he kept his accounts and made memoranda, and some\nhalf-dozen volumes that constituted his library. In this nook, shut off\nfrom the observation and society of the others, yet able to overhear and,\nif he chose to open the door, to oversee also all that went on in the\nlarger room, Johnston spent, his evenings poring over his books by the\nlight of a tallow candle, the only other light in the room being that\ngiven forth by the ever-blazing fire.\n\nOwing to this separation from the others, Johnston had been unaware of\nthe manner in which Frank had been tormented, as it was borne so\nuncomplainingly. But this time Frank's indignant speech, followed so\nfast by Damase's angry retort, told him plainly that there was need of\nhis interference. He emerged from his corner just at the moment when\nDamase was ready to strike. One glance at the state of affairs was\nenough. Damase's back was turned toward him. With a swift spring, that\nstartled the others as if he had fallen through the roof, he darted\nforward, and ere the French-Canadian's fist could reach its mark a\nresistless grasp was laid upon his collar, and, swung clear off his feet,\nhe was flung staggering across the room as though he had been a mere\nchild.\n\n\"You Indian dog!\" growled Johnston, in his fiercest tones, \"what are you\nabout? Don't let me catch you tormenting that boy again!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nLIFE IN THE LUMBER CAMP.\n\n\nFor a moment there was absolute silence in the shanty, the sudden and\neffectual intervention of the big foreman in Frank Kingston's behalf\nfilling the onlookers with astonishment. But then, as they recovered\nthemselves, there came a burst of laughter that made the rafters ring, in\nthe midst of which Damase, gathering himself together, slunk scowling to\nhis berth with a face that was dark with hate.\n\nNot deigning to take any further notice of him, Johnston turned to go\nback to his corner, touching Frank on his shoulder as he did so, and\nsaying to him in a low tone,--\n\n\"Come with me, my lad; I want a word with you.\"\n\nStill trembling from the excitement of the scene through which he had\njust passed, Frank followed the foreman into his little sanctum, the\ninside of which he had never seen before, for it was kept jealously\nlocked whenever its occupant was absent. Johnston threw himself clown on\nhis bunk, and motioned Frank to take a seat upon the chest. For a few\nmoments he regarded him in silence, and so intently that, although his\nexpression was full of kindness, and it seemed of admiration, too, the\nboy felt his face flushing under his steady scrutiny. At last the foreman\nspoke.\n\n\"You're a plucky lad, Frank. Just like your father-God bless him' He was\na good friend to me when I needed a friend sorely. I heard all that went\non to-night, though I didn't see it, and had some hint of it before,\nthough I didn't let on, for I wanted to see what stuff you were made of.\nBut you played the man, my boy, and your father would have been proud to\nsee you. Now just you go right ahead, Frank; and if any of those French\nrascals or anybody else tries to hinder you, out of this shanty he'll go,\nneck and crop, and stay out, as sure as my name is Dan Johnston.\"\n\n\"You're very kind, Mr. Johnston,\" said Frank, his eyes glistening\nsomewhat suspiciously, for, to tell the truth, this warm praise coming\nafter the recent strain upon his nerves was a little too much for his\nself-control. \"I felt sometimes like telling you when the men tormented\nme so; but I didn't want to be a tale-bearer, and I was hoping they'd get\ntired of it and give up of their own accord.\"\n\n\"It's best as it is, lad,\" replied Johnston. \"If the men found out you\ntold me, they'd be like to think hard of you. But there's no fear of that\nnow. And look here, Frank. After this, when you want to read your Bible\nin peace, and say your prayers, just come in here. No one'll bother you\nhere, and you can sit down on the chest there and have a quiet time to\nyourself.\"\n\nFrank's face fairly beamed with delight at this unexpected invitation,\nand he stood up on his feet to thank his kind friend.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Johnston, I'm so glad! I've never been able to read my Bible or\nsay my prayers right since I came to the shanty-there's always such a\nnoise going on. But I won't mind that in here. It's so good of you to let\nme come in.\"\n\nThe foreman smiled in his deep, serious way, and then as he relapsed into\nsilence, and took up again the book he had laid down to spring to Frank's\nassistance, Frank thought it time to withdraw; and with a respectful\n\"Good-night, sir,\" which Johnston acknowledged by a nod, returned to the\nlarger room.\n\nThe shantymen were evidently awaiting his reappearance with much\ncuriosity; but he went quietly back to his bunk, picked up his Bible,\nfinished the passage in the midst of which he had been interrupted, and,\nhaving said his prayers, lay down to sleep without a word to any one; for\nno one questioned him, and he felt no disposition to start a discussion\nby questioning any of the others.\n\nFrom this time forth he could see clearly that two very different\nopinions concerning himself prevailed in the shanty. By all the English\nmembers of the gang, and some of the. French, headed by honest Baptiste,\nhe was looked upon, with hearty liking and admiration, as a plucky chap\nthat knew how to take care of himself; by the remainder of the French\ncontingent, with Damase as the ruling spirit, he was regarded as a\nstuck-up youngster that wanted taking down badly, and who was trying to\nmake himself a special favourite with the foreman just to advance his\nown selfish ends. Gladly would Frank have been on friendly terms with\nall; but this being now impossible, through no fault of his own, he made\nup his mind to go on his way as quietly as possible, being constantly\ncareful to give no cause of offence to those who, as he well knew, were\nonly too eager to take it.\n\nThere were some slight flurries of snow, fragile and short-lived heralds\nof winter's coming, during the latter part of November, and then December\nwas ushered in by a grand storm that lasted a whole day, and made glad\nthe hearts of the lumbermen by filling the forest aisles with a deep,\nsoft, spotless carpet, that asked only to be packed smooth and hard in\norder to make perfect roads over which to transport the noble logs that\nhad been accumulating upon the \"roll-ways\" during the past weeks.\n\nA shantyman is never so completely in his element as when the snow lies\ntwo feet deep upon the earth's brown breast. An open winter is his bane,\nJack Frost his best friend; and there was a perceptible rise in the\nspirits of the occupants of Camp Kippewa as the mercury sank lower and\nlower in the tube of the foreman's thermometer. Plenty of snow meant not\nonly easy hauling all winter long, but a full river and \"high water\" in\nthe spring-time, and no difficulty in getting the drive of logs that\nwould represent their winter's work down the Kippewa to the Grand River\nbeyond. Frank did not entirely share their exultation. The colder it got\nthe more wood had to be chopped, the more food had to be cooked--for the\nmen's appetites showed a marked increase--and, furthermore, the task of\nkeeping the water-barrels filled became one of serious magnitude. But\nbracing himself to meet his growing burdens, he toiled away cheerfully,\nresisting every temptation to grumble, his clear tuneful whistling of the\nsacred airs in vogue at Calumet making Baptiste, who had a quick ear for\nmusic, so familiar with \"Rock of Ages,\" \"Abide with Me,\" \"Nearer, my God,\nto Thee,\" and other melodies, which have surely strayed down to us from\nheaven, that unconsciously he took to whistling them himself, much to\nFrank's amusement and approval.\n\nThe days were very much alike. At early dawn, before it was yet light\nenough to see clearly, Johnston would emerge from his corner, and, in\nstentorian tones whose meaning was not to be mistaken, shout to the\nsleeping men scattered along the rows of sloping bunks.\n\n\"Up with ye, men! up with ye!\" And with many a growl and grunt they\nwould, one by one, unroll from their blankets. As their only preparation\nfor bed had been to lay aside their coats and boots or moccasins, the\nmorning toilet did not consume much time. A dash of cold water as an\neye-opener, a tugging on of boots or lacing up of moccasins, a scrambling\ninto coats, and that was the sum of it. The only brush and comb in the\ncamp belonged to Frank, and he felt half ashamed to use them, because no\none else thought such articles necessary.\n\nBreakfast hurriedly disposed of, all but Baptiste and Frank sallied forth\ninto the snow, to be seen no more until mid-day. There were just fifty\npersons, all told, in the camp, each man having his definite work to do\nthe carpenter, whose business it was to keep the sleighs in repair; the\nteamsters, who directed the hauling of the logs; the \"sled-tenders,\" who\nsaw that the loads were well put on; the \"head chopper\" and his\nassistants, whose was the laborious yet fascinating task of felling the\nforest monarchs; the \"sawyers,\" who cut their prostrate forms into\nconvenient lengths; the \"scorers,\" who stripped off the branches and slab\nsides from tree trunks set apart for square timber; and finally, the\n\"hewer,\" who with his huge, broad axe made square the \"stick,\" as the\ngreat piece of timber is called.\n\nAll these men had to be fed three times a day, and almost insatiable were\ntheir appetites, as poor Frank had no chance to forget. Happily they did\nnot demand the same variety in their bill of fare as do the guests at a\nmetropolitan hotel. Pork and beans, bread and tea, these were the staple\nitems. Anything else was regarded as an \"extra.\" A rather monotonous\ndiet, undoubtedly; but it would not be easy to prescribe a better one for\nmen working twelve hours a day, in the open air, through the still,\nsteady cold of a Canadian winter in the backwoods.\n\nAt noon the hungry toilers trooped back for dinner, which they devoured\nin ravenous haste that there might be as much as possible left of the\nhour for a lounge upon the bunk, with pipe in mouth, in luxurious\nidleness. Then as the dusk gathered they appeared once more, this time\nfor the night, and disposed to eat their supper with much more decorous\nslowness. Supper over, the snow-soaked mittens and stockings hung about\nthe fire to dry, and pipes put in full blast, they were ready for song,\nstory, or dance, until bed time.\n\nThus day followed day, until Frank, whose work kept him closely confined\nto the camp, grew so weary of it that he was on the verge of heartily\nrepenting that he had ever consented to be a chore-boy, ever thought that\nwas the only condition upon which he could gratify his longing for a\nlumberman's life, when another mischance became his good fortune, and he\nwas unexpectedly relieved of a large part of his tiresome duties. This\nwas how it came about.\n\nOne morning he was surprised by seeing one of the sleighs returning a\ngood while before the dinner hour, and was somewhat alarmed when he\nnoticed that it bore the form of a man, who had evidently been the victim\nof an accident. Happily, however, it proved to be not a very serious\ncase. An immense pine in falling headlong had borne with it a number of\nsmaller trees that stood near by, and one of these had fallen upon an\nunwary \"scorer,\" hurling him to the ground, and badly bruising his right\nleg, besides causing some internal injury. He was insensible when picked\nup, but came to himself soon after reaching the shanty, where Frank made\nhim as comfortable as he could, even putting him upon his own mattress\nthat he might lie as easy as possible.\n\nThe injured man proved to be one of Damase Deschenaux's allies; but Frank\ndid not let that prevent his showing him every kindness while he was\nrecovering from his injuries, with the result of completely winning the\npoor ignorant fellow's heart, much to Damase's disgust. Damase, indeed,\ndid his best to persuade Laberge that Frank's attentions were prompted\nby some secret motive, and that it was not to be trusted. But deeds are\nfar stronger arguments than words, and the sufferer was not to be\nconvinced. By the end of a week he was able to limp about the shanty, but\nit was very evident that he would not be fit to take up his work again\nthat season. This state of affairs caused the foreman some concern, for\nhe felt loath to send the unfortunate fellow home, and yet he could not\nkeep him in idleness. Then it appeared that what is one man's extremity\nmay be another's opportunity. Johnston knew very well that however\nbravely he might go about it, Frank's work could not help being\ndistasteful to him, and a bright plan flashed into his mind. Calling\nFrank into his corner one evening, he said,--\n\n\"How would you like, my lad, to have some of the out-door work for a\nchange?\"\n\nThe mere expression of Frank's face was answer enough. It fairly shone\nwith gladness, as he replied,--\n\n\"I would like it above all things, sir, for I am a little tired of being\nnothing but a chore-boy.\"\n\n\"Well, I think we might manage it, Frank,\" said the foreman. \"You see,\nLaberge can't do his work again this winter, and it goes against my heart\nto send him home, for he's nobody but himself to depend upon. So I've hit\nupon this plan: Laberge can't chop the wood or haul the water, but he can\nhelp Baptiste in cooking and cleaning up. Suppose, then, you were to get\nthe wood ready and see about the water in the morning, and then come out\ninto the woods with us after dinner, leaving Laberge to do the rest of\nthe work. How would that suit you?\"\n\n\"It would suit me just splendidly, sir,\" exclaimed Frank, delightedly. \"I\ncan see about the wood and water all right before dinner, and I'll be so\nglad to go to the woods with you. I'll just do the best I can to fill\nLaberge's place.\"\n\n\"I'm right sure you will, Frank,\" replied Johnston. \"So you may consider\nit settled for the present, at any rate.\"\n\nFrank felt like dancing a jig on the way back to his bunk, and not even\nthe scowling face of Damase, who had been listening to the conversation\nin the foreman's room with keen Indian ears, and had caught enough of it\nto learn of the arrangement made, could cast any damper upon his spirits.\nIn this case half a loaf was decidedly better than no bread at all.\nFreedom from the restraints and irksome duties of chore-boy's lot for\neven half the day was a precious boon, and the happy boy lay down to rest\nthat night feeling like quite a different person from what he had been\nof late, when there seemed no way of escape from the monotonous,\nwearisome task he had taken upon himself, except to give it all up and\nreturn to Calumet, which was almost the last thing that he could imagine\nhimself doing; for Frank Kingston had plenty of pride as well as pluck,\nand his love for lumbering had not suffered any eclipse because of his\nexperiences.\n\nBut what is one man's meat is another man's poison, according to the\nhomely adage, and in this case what made Frank so happy made--Damase\nmiserable. The jealous, revengeful fellow saw in it only another proof\nof the foreman's favouritism, and was also pleased to regard the\nrelegating of Laberge to the dish-washing and so forth as the degradation\nof a compatriot, which it behoved him to resent, since Laberge seemed\nlacking in the spirit to do it himself. Had he imagined that he would\nmeet with the support of the majority, he would have sought to organize a\nrebellion in the camp. But he knew well enough that such a thing was\nutterly out of the question, so he was forced to content himself with\nfresh determinations to \"get even\" with the foreman and his favourite in\nsome way before the winter passed; and, as will be seen, he came\nperilously near attaining his object.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nA THRILLING EXPERIENCE.\n\n\nFrank was very happy now that the way had been so opportunely opened for\nhim to take part in the whole round of lumbering operations. He awaited\nwith impatience the coming of noon and the rush of hungry men to their\nhearty dinner, because it was the signal for his release from chore-boy\nwork and promotion to the more honourable position of assistant-teamster.\nThe long afternoons out in the cold, crisp air, amid the thud of\nwell-aimed axes, the crash of falling trees, the shouts of busy men, and\nall the other noisy incidents of the war they were waging against the\ninnocent, defenceless forest, were precisely what his heart had craved so\nlong, and he felt clearer than ever in his mind that lumbering was the\nlife for him.\n\nAfter he had been a week at his new employment, Con Murphy, the big\nteamster to whom he had been assigned by the foreman, with the injunction\nto \"be easy on the lad, and give him plenty of time to get handy,\" was\nheard to say in public,--\n\n\"Faith, an' he's a broth of a boy, I can tell you; and I wouldn't give\nhim for half-a-dozen of those _parlez-vous_ Frenchies like the chap whose\nplace he took--indade that I wouldn't.\"\n\nWhich, coming to Damase's ears, added further fuel to the fire of\njealousy and hate that was burning within this half-savage creature's\nbreast. So fierce indeed were Damase's feelings that he could not keep\nthem concealed, and more than one of the shantymen took occasion to drop\na word of warning into Frank's ear about him.\n\n\"You'd better keep a sharp eye on that chap Damase, Frank,\" they would\nsay. \"He's an ugly customer, and he seems to have got it in for you.\"\nFrank, on his part, was by no means disposed to laugh at or neglect these\nkindly warnings. Indeed, he fully intended repeating them to Johnston at\nthe first opportunity. But the days slipped by without a favourable\nchance presenting itself, and Damase's wild thirst for the revenge which\nhe thought was merited came perilously near a dreadful satisfaction.\n\nFebruary had come, and supplies at the shanty were running low, so that\nForeman Johnston deemed it necessary to pay a visit to the depot to see\nabout having a fresh stock sent out. The first that Frank knew of his\nintention was the night before he started. He had gone into the foreman's\nlittle room as usual to read his Bible and pray, and having finished, was\nabout to slip quietly out, Johnston having apparently been quite\nunobservant of his presence, when he was asked,--\n\n\"How would you like to go over to the depot with me to-morrow?\"\n\nHow would he like! Such a question to ask of a boy, when it meant a\ntwenty-five miles' drive and a whole day's holiday after months of steady\nwork at the camp!\n\n\"I should be delighted, sir,\" replied Frank, as promptly as he could get\nthe words out.\n\n\"Very well, then; you can come along with me. We'll start right after\nbreakfast. Baptiste will have to look after himself for one day,\" said\nthe foreman. And with a fervent \"Thank you, sir,\" Frank went off, his\nface wreathed with smiles and his heart throbbing with joy at the\nprospect before him.\n\nSo eager was he that it did not need Johnston's shout of \"Turn out, lads,\nturn out!\" to waken him next morning, for he was wide awake already, and\nhe tumbled into his clothes with quite unusual alacrity. So soon as\nbreakfast was over, the foreman had one of the best horses in the stable\nharnessed to his \"jumper,\" as the low, strong, comfortable wooden sleigh\nthat is alone able to cope with the rough forest roads is called;\nabundance of thick warm buffalo-robes were provided; and then he and\nFrank tucked themselves in tightly, and they set out on their long drive\nto the depot.\n\nThe mercury stood at twenty degrees below zero when they started, but\nthey did not mind that. Not a breath of wind stirred the clear cold air.\nThe sun soon rose into the blue vault above them, and shone down upon\nthe vast expanse of snow about them with a vigour that made their eyes\nblink. The horse was a fine animal, and, having been off duty for a few\ndays previous, was full of speed and spirit, and they glided over the\nwell-beaten portion of the road at a dashing pace. But when they came to\nthe part over which there had been little travel all winter long the\ngoing was too heavy for much speed, and often the horse could not do more\nthan walk.\n\nThis seemed to Frank just the opportunity for which he had been waiting,\nto tell the foreman about Damase and his threats of revenge. At first\nJohnston was disposed to make light of the matter, but when Frank told\nhim what he had himself observed, as well as what had been reported to\nhim by the others, the foreman was sufficiently impressed to say,--\n\n\"The rascal wants some looking after, that's clear. He's a worthless\nfellow, anyway, and I'm mighty sorry I ever let him into my gang. I think\nthe best thing will be to drop him as soon as I get back, or he may make\nsome trouble for us. I'm glad you told me this, Frank. I won't forget\nit.\"\n\nAt the depot they found Alec Stewart, just returned from a tour of\ninspection of the different camps, and full of hearty welcome. He was\nvery glad to see Frank.\n\n\"Ah ha, my boy!\" he cried, slapping him vigorously on the back, \"I\nneedn't ask you how you are. Your looks answer for you. Why, you must\nweigh ten pounds more than when I last saw you. Well, what do you think\nof lumbering now, and how does Mr. Johnston treat you? They tell me,\"\nlooking at the foreman with a sly smile, \"that he's a mighty stiff boss.\nIs that the way you find him?\"\n\nFrank was ready enough to answer all his friend's questions, and to\nassure him that the foreman treated him like a kind father, and that he\nhimself was fonder of lumbering than ever. Both he and Johnston had\nfamous appetites for the bountiful dinner that was soon spread before\nthem, and the resources of the depot permitting of a much more extensive\nbill of fare than was possible at the shanty, he felt in duty bound to\napologize for the avidity with which he attacked the juicy roast of beef,\nthe pearly potatoes, the toothsome pudding, and the other dainties that,\nafter months of pork and beans, tasted like ambrosia.\n\nThe superintendent and the foreman had much to say to one another which\ndid not concern Frank, and so while they talked business he roamed about\nthe place, enjoying the freedom from work, and chatting with the men at\nthe depot, telling them some of his experiences and being told some of\ntheirs in return. Happening to mention Damase Deschenaux, one of the\nmen at once exclaimed,--\n\n\"That's a first-class scoundrel! It beats me to understand why Johnston\nhas him in his gang. He's sure to raise trouble wherever he goes.\"\n\nFrank felt tempted to tell how Damase had \"raised trouble\" with him, but\nthought he would better not, and the talk soon turned in another\ndirection.\n\nThe afternoon was waning before Johnston prepared to start on the return\njourney, and Mr. Stewart tried hard to persuade him to stay for the\nnight--an invitation that Frank devoutly hoped would be accepted. But the\nbig foreman would not hear of it.\n\n\"No, no,\" said be in his decided way, \"I must get back to the shanty.\nThere's been only half a day's work done to-day, I'll warrant you,\nbecause I wasn't on hand to keep the beggars at it. Why, they'll lie\nabed till mid-day to-morrow if I'm not there to rouse them out of their\nbunks.\"\n\nWhatever Johnston said he stuck to, so there was no use in argument, and\nshortly after four o'clock he and Frank tucked themselves snugly into the\njumper again and drove away from the depot, Stewart shouting after\nthem,--\n\n\"If you change your mind after you've gone a couple of miles, don't feel\ndelicate about coming back. I won't laugh at you.\"\n\nJohnston's only answer was a grim smile and a crack of the whip over the\nhorse's hind-quarters that sent him off at full gallop, the snow flying\nin clouds from his plunging feet into the faces of his passengers.\n\nThe hours crept by as the sleigh made its slow way over the heavy ground,\nand Frank, as might be expected after the big dinner he had eaten, began\nto feel very sleepy. There was no reason why he should not yield to the\nseductive influence of the drowsy god, so, sinking down low into the seat\nand drawing the buffalo-robe up over his head, he soon was lost to sight\nand sense. While he slept the night fell, and they were still many miles\nfrom home. The cold was great, but not a breath of wind stirred the\nintense stillness. The stars shone out like flashing diamonds set in\nlapis-lazuli. Silence reigned supreme, save as it was intruded upon by\nthe heavy breathing of the frost-flaked horse and the crunching of the\nrunners through the crisp snow.\n\nJohnston felt glad when they breasted the hill on the other side of which\nwas Deep Gully, crossed by a rude corduroy bridge; for that bridge was\njust five miles from the camp, and another hour, at the farthest, would\nbring them to the end of their journey.\n\nWhen the top of the hill was reached, the foreman gathered up the reins,\ncalled upon the horse to quicken his pace, and away they went down the\n<DW72> at a tearing gallop.\n\nDeep Gully well deserved the name that had been given it when the road\nwas made. A turbulent torrent among the hills had in the course of time\neaten a way for itself, which, although very narrow, made up for its lack\nof breadth by a great degree of depth. It was a rather picturesque place\nin summer time, when abundant foliage softened its steep sides; but in\nwinter, when it seemed more like a crevasse in a glacier than anything\nelse, there was no charm about it. The bridge that crossed it was a very\nsimple affair, consisting merely of two long stringers laid six feet\napart, and covered with flattened timbers.\n\nUpon this slight structure the jumper descended with a bump that woke\nFrank from his pleasant nap, and, putting aside the buffalo-robe, he sat\nup in the sleigh to gather his wits. It was well he did, for if ever he\nneeded them it was at that moment. Almost simultaneous with the thud of\nthe horse's feet upon the bridge there came a crash, a sound of rending\ntimbers, the bridge quivered like a ship struck by a mighty billow, and\nthe next instant dropped into the chasm below, bearing with it a man, and\nboy, and horse, and sleigh!\n\nFull thirty feet they fell; the bridge, which had given way at one end\nonly, hurling them from it so that they landed at the bottom of Deep\nGully in a confused heap, yet happily free from entanglement with its\ntimbers. So soon as he felt himself falling Frank threw aside the robes\nand made ready to spring; but Johnston instinctively held on to the\nreins, with the result that, being suddenly dragged forward by the\nfrantic plunging of the terrified animal, he received a kick in the\nforehead that rendered him insensible, and would have dashed his brains\nout but for the thick fur cap he wore, while the jumper, turning over\nupon him, wrenched his leg so as to render him completely helpless.\n\nFrank was more fortunate. His timely spring, aided by the impetus of\ntheir descent, carried him clear of the horse and sleigh, and sent him\nheadlong into a deep drift that filled a hollow at the gully's bottom.\nThe snow-bank opened its arms to receive him, and buried him to the hips.\nThe first shock completely deprived him of breath, and almost of his\nsenses too. But beyond that he received no injury, and was soon\nstruggling with all his might to free himself from the snow that held him\ncaptive. This proved to be no easy task. He was pretty firmly embedded,\nand at first it seemed as though his efforts at release only made his\nposition worse.\n\n\"This is a fine fix to be in!\" said he to himself. \"Buried in a\nsnow-drift; and dear knows what's happened to Mr. Johnston.\"\n\nHe had been hoping that the foreman would come to his assistance, but\ngetting no reply to his shouts, he began to fear lest his companion might\nbe unable to render any help. Perhaps, indeed, he might be dead! The\nthought roused him to still greater exertions, and at last by a heroic\neffort he succeeded in turning a kind of somersault in his cold prison,\nwhich had the happy result of putting his head where his heels had been.\nTo scramble out altogether was then an easy job, and in another instant\nhe was beside the sleigh.\n\nHis first thought was that his worst fears were realized. Certainly the\nsight was one that might have filled a stouter heart with chill alarm.\nThe horse had fallen into a deep drift, which covered him to the\nshoulders, and rendered him utterly helpless, entangled as he was with\nthe harness and the over-turned jumper. He had evidently, like Frank,\nbeen struggling violently to free himself, but finding it useless, had\nfor a time ceased his efforts, and stood wild-eyed and panting, the\npicture of animal terror. On seeing Frank he made another frantic plunge\nor two, looking at the boy with an expression of agonized appeal, as\nthough he would say,--\n\n\"Oh, help me out of this dreadful place!\"\n\nAnd glad would Frank have been to respond to the best of his ability. But\nthe poor horse could not be considered first. Half under the sleigh, half\nburied in the snow, lay the big foreman, to all appearance dead, the\nblood flowing freely from an ugly gash in his forehead, where the fur cap\nhad failed to protect him entirely from the horse's hoof.\n\nFrank sprang to his side, and with a tremendous effort turned him over\nupon his back, and getting out his handkerchief, wiped the blood away\nfrom his face. As he did so, the first awful thought of death gave way to\na feeling of hope. White and still as Johnston lay, his face was warm,\nand he was surely breathing a little. Seizing a handful of snow, Frank\npressed it to the foreman's forehead, and cried to him as though he were\nasleep,--\n\n\"Mr. Johnston, Mr. Johnston! What's the matter with you? Tell me, won't\nyou?\"\n\nFor some minutes there was no sign of response. Then the injured man\nstirred, gave a deep sigh followed by a groan, opened his eyes with a\nlook of dazed bewilderment, and put his hand up to his head, which was\nevidently giving him intense pain.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Johnston, I'm so glad! I was afraid you were dead!\" exclaimed\nFrank. \"Can't I help you to get up?\"\n\nTurning upon his shoulder, the foreman made an effort to raise himself,\nbut at once sank back with a groan.\n\n\"I'm sore hurt, my lad,\" he said; \"I can't stir. You'll have to get\nhelp.\"\n\nAnd so great was his suffering that he well nigh lost consciousness\nagain.\n\nFrank tried his best to lift him away from the sleigh, but found the task\naltogether beyond his young strength in that deep snow, and had to give\nit up as hopeless. Certainly he was in a most trying situation for a mere\nboy--fully five miles from the shanty, with an almost untravelled road\nbetween that must be traversed by him alone, while the injured man would\nhave to lie helpless in the snow until his return. Little wonder if he\nfelt in sore perplexity as to what should be done, and how he should act\nunder the circumstances.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nIN THE NICK OF TIME.\n\n\nIf Frank was undecided, Mr. Johnston's mind was fully made up.\n\n\"Our only chance is for you to get to the shanty at once, Frank. It'll be\na hard job, my boy, but you'll have to try it,\" said he.\n\n\"But what'll become of you, sir, staying here all alone? The wolves might\nfind you out, and how could you defend yourself then?\" asked Frank, in\nsore bewilderment as to the solution of the dilemma.\n\n\"I'll have to take my chances of that, Frank; for if I stay here all\nnight, I'll freeze to death, anyway. So just throw the buffaloes over me,\nand put for the shanty as fast as you can,\" replied the foreman.\n\nUnable to suggest any better plan, Frank covered Johnston carefully with\nthe robes, making him as comfortable as he could; then buttoning up his\ncoat and pulling his cap on tightly, he was about to scramble up the\nsteep side of the gully to regain the road, when the foreman said, in a\nlow tone, almost a whisper,--\n\n\"This is about the time you generally say your prayers, Frank. Couldn't\nyou say them here before you start?\"\n\nWith quick intuition Frank divined the big bashful man's meaning. It was\nhis roundabout way of asking the boy to commit him to the care of God\nbefore leaving him alone in his helplessness.\n\nFeeling half condemned at not having thought of it himself, Frank came\nback, and kneeling close beside his friend, lifted up his voice in prayer\nwith a fervour and simplicity that showed how strong and sure was his\nfaith in the love and power of his Father in heaven. When he had finished\nhis petition, the foreman added to it an \"Amen\" that seemed to come from\nthe very depths of his heart; and then, yielding to an impulse that was\nirresistible, Frank bent down and implanted a sudden kiss upon the pale\nface looking at him with such earnest, anxious eyes. This unexpected\nproof of warm affection completely overcame the foreman, whose feelings\nhad been already deeply stirred by the prayer. Strong, reserved man as he\nwas, be could not keep back the tears.\n\n\"God bless you, my boy!\" he murmured huskily. \"If I get safely out of\nthis, I shall be a different man. You have taught me a lesson I won't\nforget.\"\n\n\"God bless you and take care of you, sir!\" answered Frank. \"I hope\nnothing will happen to you while I'm away, and I'll be back as soon as I\ncan.\"\n\nThe next moment he was making his way up the gully's side, and soon a\ntriumphant shout announced that he had reached the road and was off for\nthe lumber camp at his best speed.\n\nThe task before him was one from which many a grown man might have shrunk\nin dismay. For five long, lonely miles the road ran through the forest\nthat darkened it with heavy shadows, and not a living soul could he hope\nto meet until he reached the shanty.\n\nIt was now past eight o'clock, and to do his best it would take him a\nwhole hour to reach his goal. The snow lay deep upon the road, and was\nbut little beaten down by the few sleighs that had passed over it. The\nair was keen and crisp with frost, the temperature being many degrees\nbelow zero. And finally, the most fear-inspiring of all, there was the\npossibility of wolves, for the dreaded timber wolf had been both heard\nand seen in close proximity to the camp of late, an unusual scarcity of\nsmall game having made him daring in his search for food.\n\nBut Frank possessed a double source of strength. He was valiant by\nnature, and he had implicit faith in God's overruling providence. He felt\nspecially under the divine care now, and resolutely putting away all\nthoughts of personal danger, addressed himself, mind and body, to the one\nthing--the relief of Johnston from his perilous position.\n\nWith arms braced at his sides and head bent forward, he set out at a\njog-trot, which was better suited for getting through the deep snow than\nan ordinary walk. Fortunately he was in the very pink of condition. The\nsteady, hard work of the preceding months, combined with the coarse but\nabundant food and early hours, had developed and strengthened every\nmuscle in his body and hardened his constitution until few boys of his\nage could have been found better fitted to endure a long tramp through\nheavy snow than he. Moreover, running had always been his favourite form\nof athletic exercise, and the muscles it required were well trained for\ntheir work.\n\n\"I'll do it all right inside the hour,\" he said to himself. And then, as\na sudden thought struck him, he gave a nervous little laugh, and added,\n\"And perhaps make a good deal better time if I hear anything of the\nwolves.\"\n\nTry as he might, he could not get the wolves out of his head. He had not\nhimself seen any signs of them, but several times the choppers working\nfarthest from the camp had mentioned finding their tracks in the snow,\nand once they had been heard howling in the distance after the men had\nall come into the shanty for the night.\n\nOn he went through the snow and night, now making good progress at his\nbrisk jog-trot, now going more slowly as he dropped into a walk to rest\nhimself and recover breath. Although the moon rode high in the heavens,\nthe trees which stood close to the road allowed few of her beams to light\nhis path.\n\n\"If it was only broad daylight I wouldn't mind it a bit,\" Frank\nsoliloquized; \"but this going alone at this time of night is not the sort\nof a job I care for.\"\n\nAnd then the thought of poor Johnston lying helpless but uncomplaining in\nthe snow made him feel ashamed of his words, and to ease his conscience\nhe broke into a trot again. Just as he did so a sound reached his ear\nthat sent a thrill of terror to his heart. Hoping he might be mistaken,\nhe stopped and listened with straining senses. For a moment there was\nabsolute silence. Then the sound came again--distant, but clear and\nunmistakable. He had heard it only once before, yet he felt as sure of it\nnow as if it had been his mother's voice. It was the howl of the timber\nwolf sounding through the still night air from somewhere to the north;\nhow far away he could not determine.\n\nAt the sound all his strength seemed to leave him. How helpless he was\nalone in that mighty forest without even so much as a knife wherewith to\ndefend himself! But it would not do to stand irresolute. His own life as\nwell as the foreman's depended upon his reaching the shanty. Were he to\nclimb one of the big trees that stood around, the wolves, of course,\ncould not get at him; but Johnston would be dead before daylight came to\nrelease him from his tree citadel, and perhaps he would himself fall a\nvictim to the cold in that exposed situation. There was no other\nalternative than to run for his life, so, breathing out a fervent prayer\nfor divine help and protection, he summoned all his energies to the\nstruggle. He was more than a mile from the shanty, and his exertion had\ntold severely upon his strength; but the great peril of his situation\nmade him forget his weariness, and he started off as if he were perfectly\nfresh.\n\nBut the howling of the wolves grew more and more distinct as they drew\nswiftly nearer, and with agony of heart the poor boy felt his breath\ncoming short and his limbs beginning to fail beneath him. Nearer and\nnearer came his dreaded pursuers, and every moment he expected to see\nthem burst into the road behind him.\n\nFortunately, be had reached a part of the road which, being near the\ncamp, was much used by the teams drawing logs to the river-bank, and was\nconsequently beaten hard and smooth. This welcome change enabled him to\nquicken his steps, which had dropped into a walk; and although he felt\nalmost blind from exhaustion, he pushed desperately forward, hoping at\nevery turn of the road to catch a glimpse of the shanty showing dark\nthrough the trees. The cry of the disciples caught in the sudden storm on\nGalilee, \"Lord, save us; we perish!\" kept coming to his lips as he\nstaggered onward. Surely there could not be much further to go! He turned\nfor a moment to look behind him. The wolves were in sight, their dark\nforms showing distinctly against the snow as in silence now they gained\nupon their prey. Run as hard as he might, they must be upon him ere\nanother fifty yards were passed. He felt as if it were all over with him,\nand so utter was his exhaustion that it seemed to benumb his faculties\nand make him half willing for the end to come.\n\nBut the end was not to be as the wolves desired. Just at the critical\nmoment, when further exertion seemed impossible, he caught sight of some\none approaching him rapidly from the direction of the shanty, and\nshouting aloud while he rushed forward to meet him. With one last supreme\neffort he plunged toward this timely apparition, and a moment later\nfell insensible at his feet.\n\nIt was Baptiste--good-hearted, affectionate Baptiste--who, having awaited\nthe travellers' return and grown concerned at their long delay, had gone\nout to look along the road to see if they were anywhere in view. Catching\nsight of Frank's lonely figure, he had made all haste to meet him, and\nreached him just in time to ward off the wolves that in a minute more\nwould have been upon him.\n\nWhen the wolves saw Baptiste, who swung a gleaming axe about his head, as\nhe shouted, \"_Chiens donc!_ I'll split your heads eef I get at you!\" they\nstopped short, and even retreated a little, drawing themselves together\nin a sort of group in the middle of the road, snapping their teeth and\nsnarling in a half-frightened, half-furious manner. But Baptiste was not\nto be daunted. Lifting his axe on high, he shouted at them in his\nchoicest French, and charged upon the pack as though they had been simply\na flock of marauding sheep. Wolves are arrant cowards, and without\npausing to take into consideration the disparity of numbers, for they\nstood twelve to one, they fled ignominiously before the plucky Frenchman,\nnot halting until they had put fifty yards between themselves and him.\nWhereupon Baptiste seized upon the opportunity to pick up the still\nsenseless Frank, throw him over his broad shoulder, and hasten back to\nthe shanty before the wolves should regain their self-possession.\n\nThey were all asleep in the shanty when the cook returned with his\nunconscious burden; but he soon roused the others with his vigorous\nshouts, and by the time they were fully awake, Frank was awake too, the\nwarm air of the room quickly reviving him from his faint. Looking round\nabout with a bewildered expression, he asked anxiously,--\n\n\"Where is Mr. Johnston? Hasn't he come back too?\"\n\nThen he recollected himself, and a picture of his good friend lying\nprostrate and helpless in the snow, perhaps surrounded by the same wolves\nthat brave Baptiste had rescued him from, flashed into his mind, and\nspringing to his feet he cried,--\n\n\"Hurry--hurry! Mr. Johnston is in Deep Gully, and he can't move. The\nbridge broke under us, and he was almost killed. Oh, hurry, won't you, or\nthe wolves will be after him!\"\n\nThe men looked at one another in astonishment and horror.\n\n\"Deep Gully!\" they exclaimed. \"That's five miles off. We must go at\nonce.\"\n\nAnd immediately all was bustle and excitement as they prepared to go out\ninto the night. As lumbermen always sleep in their clothes, they did not\ntake long to dress, and in a wonderfully short space of time the\nteamsters had a sleigh with a pair of horses at the door, upon which\neight of the men, armed with guns and axes, sprang, and off they went\nalong the road as fast as the horses could gallop. Frank wanted to\naccompany them, but Baptiste would not allow him.\n\n\"No, no, _mon cher._ You must stay wid me. You tired out. They get him\nall right, and bring him safe home.\"\n\nAnd he was fair to lie back, so tortured with anxiety for the foreman\nthat he could hardly appreciate the blessing of rest, although his own\nexertions had been tremendous.\n\nNot sparing the horses, the rescuers sped over the road, ever now and\nthen discharging a gun, in order to let Johnston know of their approach\nand keep his courage up. In less than half-an-hour they reached the\ngully, and peering over the brink, beheld the dark heap in the snow below\nthat was the object of their search. One glance was sufficient to show\nhow timely was their coming, for almost encircling the hapless man were\nsmaller shapes that even at that distance could be readily recognized.\n\n\"We're too late!\" cried one of the men; \"they're wolves.\" And with a wild\nshout he flung himself recklessly down the snowy <DW72>, and others\nfollowed close behind.\n\nBefore their tumultuous onset the wolves fled like leaves before the\nautumn wind, and poor Johnston, almost dead with pain, cold, and\nexhaustion, raising himself a little from the snow, called out in a faint\nbut joyful tone,--\n\n\"Thank God; you've come in time! I thought it was all over with me.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nOUT OF CLOUDS, SUNSHINE.\n\n\nGreat was the joy of the men at finding Johnston alive and still able to\nspeak, and at once their united strength was applied to extricating him\nfrom his painful position. The poor horse, utterly unable to help\nhimself, had long ago given up the vain struggle, and in a state of\npitiful exhaustion and fright was lying where he first fell, the snow all\nabout him being torn up in a way that showed how furious had been his\nstruggles. Johnston had by dint of heroic exertion managed to withdraw\nhis leg a little from underneath the heavy jumper; but he could not free\nhimself altogether, so that had the wolves found out how completely both\nhorse and man were in their power, they would have made short work of\nboth. Fortunately, by vigorous shouting and wild waving of his arms, the\nforeman had been able to keep the cowardly creatures at bay long enough\nto allow the rescuing party to reach him. But he could not have kept up\nmany minutes more, and if strength and voice had entirely forsaken him\nthe dreadful end would soon have followed.\n\nHandling the injured man with a tenderness and care one would hardly have\nlooked for in such rough fellows, the lumbermen after no small exertion\ngot him up out of the gully and laid him upon the sleigh in the road.\nThen the horse was released from the jumper, and, being coaxed to his\nfeet, led down the gully to where the sides were not so steep and he\ncould scramble up, while the jumper itself was left behind to be\nrecovered when they had more time to spare.\n\nBefore they started off for the shanty one of the men had the curiosity\nto cross the gully and examine the bridge where it broke, in order to\nfind out the cause of the accident. When he returned there was a strange\nexpression on his face, which added to the curiosity of the others who\nwere awaiting his report.\n\n\"Both stringers are sawed near through!\" he exclaimed. \"And it's not been\ndone long, either. Must have been done to-day, for the sawdust's lying\nround still.\"\n\nThe men looked at one another in amazement and horror. The stringers\nsawed through! What scoundrel could have done such a thing? Who was the\nmurderous traitor in their camp? Then to the quickest-witted of them came\nthe thought of Damase's dire threat and consuming jealousy.\n\n\"I know who did it,\" he cried. \"There's only one man in the camp villain\nenough to do it. It was that hound Damase, as sure as I stand here!\"\n\nInstantly the others saw the matter in the same light. Damase had done it\nbeyond a doubt, hoping thereby to have the revenge for which his savage\nheart thirsted. Ill would it have gone with him could the men have laid\nhands on him at that moment. They were just in the mood to have inflicted\nsuch punishment as would probably have put the wretch in a worse plight\nthan his intended victim, and many and fervent were their vows of\nvengeance, expressed in language rather the reverse of polite. Strict\nalmost to severity as Johnston was in his management of the camp, the\nmajority of the men, including all the best elements, regarded him with\ndeep respect, if not affection; and that Damase Deschenaux should make so\ndastardly an attempt upon his life aroused in them a storm of indignant\nwrath which would not soon be allayed.\n\nThey succeeded in making the sufferer quite comfortable upon the sleigh;\nbut they had to go very slowly on the return journey to the shanty, both\nto make it easy for Johnston, and because the men had to walk now that\nthe sleigh was occupied. So soon as they came in sight, Frank ran to meet\nthem, calling out eagerly,--\n\n\"Is he all right? Have you got him?\"\n\n\"We've got him, Frank, safe enough,\" replied the driver of the sleigh.\n\"But we wasn't a minute too soon, I can tell you. I guess you must have\nsent your wolves off to him when you'd done with them.\"\n\n\"Were the wolves at you, sir?\" exclaimed Frank, bending over the foreman,\nand looking anxiously into his face.\n\nJohnston had fallen into a sort of doze or stupor but the stopping of the\nsleigh and Frank's anxious voice aroused him, and he opened his eyes with\na smile that told plainly how dear to him the boy had become.\n\n\"They weren't quite at me, Frank, but they soon would have been if the\nmen hadn't come along,\" he replied.\n\nWith exceeding tenderness the big helpless man was lifted from the sleigh\nand placed in his own bunk in the corner. The whole shanty was awake to\nreceive him, a glorious fire roared and crackled upon the hearth, and the\npleasant fragrance of fresh-brewed tea filled the room. So soon as the\nforeman's outer garments had been removed, Frank brought him a pannikin\nof the lumberman's pet beverage, and he drank it eagerly, saying that it\nwas all the medicine he needed. Beyond making him as comfortable as\npossible, nothing further could be done for him, and in a little while\nthe shantymen were all asleep again as soundly as though there had been\nno disturbance of their slumbers. Frank wanted to sit up with Johnston;\nbut the foreman would not hear of it, and, anyway, thoroughly sincere as\nwas his offer, he never could have carried it out, for he was very weary\nhimself and ready to drop asleep at the first chance.\n\nOf Damase there was no sign. Some of the men had noticed him quitting\nwork earlier than usual in the afternoon, and when he did not appear at\nsupper-time had thought he was gone off hunting, which he loved to do\nwhenever he got the opportunity. Whether or not he would have the\nassurance to return to the shanty would depend upon whether he had waited\nin ambush to see the result of his villany; for if he had done so, and\nhad witnessed the at least partial failure of his plot, there was little\nchance of his being seen again.\n\nThe next morning a careful examination of Johnston showed that, while no\nbones were broken, his right leg had been very badly twisted and strained\nalmost to dislocation, and he had been internally injured to an extent\nthat could be determined only by a doctor. It was decided to send a\nmessage for the nearest doctor, and meanwhile to do everything possible\nfor the sufferer in the way of bandages and liniments that the simple\nshanty outfit afforded. By general understanding Frank assumed the duties\nof nurse; and it was not long before life at the camp settled down into\nits accustomed routine, Johnston having appointed the most experienced\nand reliable of the gang its foreman during his confinement. In due time\nthe doctor came, examined his patient, made everybody glad by announcing\nthat none of the injuries were serious, and that they required only time\nand attention for their cure, wrote out full directions for Frank to\nfollow, and then, congratulating Johnston upon his good fortune in having\nso devoted and intelligent a nurse, set off again on the long drive to\nhis distant home with the pleasant consciousness of having done his duty\nand earned a good fee.\n\nThe weeks that followed were the happiest Frank spent that winter. His\nduties as nurse were not onerous, and he enjoyed very much the importance\nwith which they invested him. So long as his patient was well looked\nafter, he was free to come and go according to his inclinations, and the\nthoughtful foreman saw to it that he spent at least half the day in the\nopen air, often sending him with messages to the men working far off in\nthe woods. Frank always carried his rifle with him on these tramps, and\nfrequently brought back with him a brace of hares or partridges, which,\nhaving had the benefit of Baptiste's skill, were greatly relished by\nJohnston, who found his appetite for the plain fare of the shanty much\ndulled by his confinement.\n\nAs the days slipped by the foreman began to open his heart to his young\ncompanion and to tell him much about his boyhood, which deeply interested\nFrank. Living a frontier life, he had his full share of adventure in\nhunting, lumbering, and prospecting for limits, and many an hour was\nspent reviewing the past. One evening while they were thus talking\ntogether Johnston became silent and fell into a sort of reverie, from\nwhich he presently roused himself, and looking very earnestly into\nFrank's face, asked him,--\n\n\"Have you always been a Christian, Frank?\"\n\nThe question came so unexpectedly and was so direct that Frank was quite\ntaken aback, and being slow to answer, the foreman, as if fearing he had\nbeen too abrupt, went on to say,--\n\n\"The reason I asked was because you seem to enjoy so much reading your\nBible and saying your prayers that I thought you must have had those good\nhabits a long time.\"\n\nFrank had now fully recovered himself, and with a blush that greatly\nbecame him, answered modestly,--\n\n\"I have always loved God. Mother taught me how good and kind he is as\nsoon as I was old enough to understand; and the older I get the more I\nwant to love him and to try to do what is right.\"\n\nA look of ineffable tenderness came into Johnston's dark eyes while the\nboy was speaking. Then his face darkened, and giving vent to a heavy\nsigh, he passed his hand over his eyes as though to put away some painful\nrecollection. After a moment's silence, he said,--\n\n\"My mother loved her Bible, and wanted me to love it too. But I was a\nwild, headstrong chap, and didn't take kindly to the notion of being\nreligious, and I'm afraid I cost her many a tear. God bless her! I wonder\ndoes she ever up there think of her son down here, and wonder if he's any\nbetter than he was when she had to leave him to look after himself.\"\n\nNot knowing just what to say, Frank made no reply, but his face glowed\nwith sympathetic interest; and after another pause the foreman went on,--\n\n\"I've been thinking a great deal lately, Frank, and it's been all your\ndoing. Seeing you so particular about your religion, and not letting\nanything stop you from saying your prayers and reading your Bible just\nas you would at home, has made me feel dreadfully ashamed of myself, and\nI've been wanting to have a talk with you about it. Would you mind\nreading your Bible to me? I haven't been inside a church for many a year,\nand I guess I'd be none the worse of a little Bible-reading.\"\n\nFrank could not restrain an exclamation of delight. Would he mind? Had\nnot this very thing been on his conscience for weeks past? Had he not\nbeen hoping and praying for a good opportunity to propose it himself, and\nonly kept back because of his fear lest the foreman should think this\noffer presumptuous?\n\n\"I shall be very glad indeed to read my Bible to you, sir,\" he answered\neagerly. \"I've been wanting to ask if I mightn't do it, but was afraid\nthat perhaps you would not like it.\"\n\n\"Well, Frank, to be honest with you, I'd a good deal rather have you read\nto me than read it for myself,\" said Johnston; \"because you must know it\n'most by heart, and I've forgotten what little I did know once.\"\n\nThe reading began that night, and thenceforward was never missed while\nthe two were at Camp Kippewa. Young as Frank was, he had learned from\nhis parents and at the Sunday school a great deal about the Book of\nbooks, and especially about the life of Christ, so that to Johnston he\nseemed almost a marvel of knowledge. It was beautiful to see the big\nman's simplicity as he sat at the feet, so to speak, of a mere boy, and\nlearned anew from him the sublime and precious gospel truths that the\nindifference and neglect of more than forty years had buried in dim\nobscurity; and Frank found an ever-increasing pleasure in repeating the\ncomments and explanations that he had heard from the dear lips at home.\nEven to his young eyes it was clear that the foreman was thoroughly in\nearnest, and would not stop short of a full surrender of himself to the\nMaster he had so long refused to acknowledge. Above all things, he was a\nthorough man, and therefore this would take time, for he would insist\nupon knowing every step of the way; but once well started; no power on\nearth or beneath would be permitted to bar his progress to the very end.\n\nAnd this great end was achieved before he left his bunk to resume his\nwork. He lay down there bruised and crippled and godless; but lie arose\nhealed and strengthened and a new man in Christ Jesus! If Frank was proud\nof his big convert, who can blame him? But for his coming to the camp,\nJohnston might have remained as he was, caring for none of those things\nwhich touched his eternal interests; but now through the influence of his\nexample, aided by favouring circumstances, he had been led to the\nMaster's feet.\n\nBut Damase--what of Damase? There is not much to tell. Whether or not he\nwas watching when the bridge fell, and how he spent that night, no one\never knew. The next morning he was seen at the depot, where he explained\nhis presence by saying that the foreman had \"bounced\" him, and that he\nwas going back to his native town. Beyond this, nothing further was ever\nheard of him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nA HUNTING-TRIP.\n\n\nThe hold of winter had begun to relax ere Johnston was able fully to\nresume his work, and a good deal of time having been lost through his\naccident, every effort had to be exerted to make it up ere the warm\nsunshine should put an end to the winter's work. Frank was looking\nforward eagerly to the day when they should break camp, for, to tell the\ntruth, he felt that he had had quite enough of it for one season, and he\nwas longing to be back in Calumet and enjoying the comforts of home once\nmore. He was not exactly homesick. You would have very much offended him\nby hinting at that. He was simply tired of the monotony of camp fare and\ncamp life, and anxious to return to civilization. So he counted the days\nthat must pass before the order to break camp would come, and felt very\nlight of heart when the sun shone warm, and correspondingly downcast when\nthe thermometer sank below zero, as it was still liable to do.\n\n\"Striving\" was the order of the day at the lumber camp--that is, the\ndifferent gangs of choppers and sawyers and teamsters vied with each\nother as to which could chop, saw, and haul the most logs in a day. The\namount of work they could accomplish when thus striving might astonish\nMr. Gladstone himself, from eighty to one hundred logs felled and trimmed\nbeing the day's work of two men. Frank was deeply interested in this\ncompetition, and enjoying the fullest confidence of the men, he was\nunanimously appointed scorer, keeping each gang's \"tally\" in a book, and\nreporting the results to the foreman, who heartily encouraged the rivalry\namong his men; for the harder they worked the better would be the showing\nfor the season, and he was anxious not to lose the reputation he had won\nof turning out more logs at his shanty than did any other foreman on the\nKippewa.\n\nAs the weeks passed and March gave way to April, and April drew toward\nits close, the lumbermen's work grew more and more arduous; but they kept\nat it bravely until at last, near the end of April, the snow became so\nsoft in the woods and the roads so bad that no more hauling could be\ndone, and the whole attention of the camp was then given to getting the\nlogs that had been gathering at the river-side all through the winter out\nupon the ice, so that they might be sure to be carried off by the spring\nfloods. This work did not require all hands, and Johnston now saw the way\nclear to giving Frank a treat that he had long had in mind for him, but\nhad said nothing about. They were having their usual chat together before\ngoing to bed, when the foreman said,--\n\n\"Is there anything you would like to do before we break up camp?\"\n\nFrank did not at first see the drift of the question, and looking at\nJohnston with a puzzled sort of expression, replied, questioningly,--\n\n\"I don't know. I've had a very good time here.\"\n\n\"Well, but can you think of anything you would like to do before you go\nback to Calumet?\" persisted the foreman. \"I'm asking you because there'll\nnot be enough work to go round next week, and you can have a bit of\nholiday. Now, isn't there something you would like to have a taste of\nwhile you have the chance?\" And as he spoke his eyes were directed toward\nthe wall at the head of his bed, where hung his rifle, powder-flask, and\nhunting knife. Frank caught his meaning at once.\n\n\"Oh, I see what you are driving at now!\" he exclaimed. \"You want to know\nif I wouldn't like to go out hunting.\"\n\n\"Right you are,\" said Johnston. \"Would you?\"\n\n\"Would I?\" cried Frank. \"Would a duck swim? Just try me, that's all.\"\n\n\"Well, I do intend to try you,\" returned Johnston. \"The firm have some\nlimits over there near the foot of the mountain that they want me to\nprospect before I go back, and pick out the best place for a camp. I've\nbeen trying to make out to go over there all winter, but getting hurt\nupset my plans, and I've not had a chance until now. So I'm thinking of\nmaking a start to-morrow. There's nothing much else to do except to\nfinish getting the logs on the ice, and I can trust the men to see to\nthat; and, no odds what kind of weather we have, the ice can't start for\na week at least. So if you'd like to come along with me and take your\nrifle, you may get a chance to have a shot at something before we get\nback. Does that suit you?\"\n\nThis proposition suited Frank admirably. A week in the woods in\nJohnston's company could not fail to be a week of delight, and he thanked\nthe foreman in his warmest words for offering to take him on his\nprospecting tour.\n\nThe following morning they set off, the party consisting of four--namely,\nthe foreman, Frank, Laberge, who accompanied them as cook, and another\nman named Booth as a sort of assistant. The snow still lay deep enough to\nrender snow-shoes necessary, and while Johnston and Frank carried their\nrifles, Laberge and Booth drew behind them a toboggan, upon which was\npacked a small tent and an abundant supply of provisions. Their route led\nstraight into the heart of the vast and so far little-explored forest,\nand away from the river beside whose bank they had been living all\nwinter. It was Johnston's purpose to penetrate to the foot of the\nmountain range that rose into sight nearly thirty miles away, and then\nwork backward by a different route, noting carefully the lie of the land,\nthe course of the streams, and the best bunches of timber, so as to make\nsure of selecting a site for the future camp in the very best locality.\n\nHe was evidently in excellent spirits himself at the prospect of a week's\nholiday, for such it would really be, and all trace of his injury having\nentirely disappeared, there was no drawback to the energy with which he\nled his little expedition into the forest where they would be buried for\nthe rest of the week.\n\nThe weather was as fine as heart could wish. All day the sun shone\nbrightly, and even at night the temperature never got anywhere near zero,\nso that with a buffalo-robe under you and a couple of good blankets over\nyou it was possible to sleep quite comfortably in a canvas tent.\n\n\"I can't promise you much in the way of game, Frank,\" said Johnston, as\nthe two tramped along side by side. \"It is too late in the season. But\nthe bears must be out of their dens by this time, and if we see one we'll\ndo our best to get his skin for you to take home.\"\n\nThe idea of bringing a big bear-skin home as a trophy of his first real\nhunting expedition pleased Frank mightily, and his eyes flashed as he\ngrasped his rifle in a way that would in itself have been sufficient\nwarning to bruin, could he only have seen it, to keep well out of the way\nof so doughty an assailant.\n\n\"I'd like immensely to have a shot at a bear, sir,\" he replied. \"So I do\nhope we shall see one.\"\n\n\"You must be precious careful, though, Frank,\" said Johnston, \"for\nthey're generally in mighty bad humour at this time of year, and you need\nto get your work in quick, or they may make short work of you.\"\n\nVarious kinds of game were seen during the next day or two, and Frank had\nmany a shot. But Johnston seldom fired, preferring to let Frank have all\nthe fun, as he said. One afternoon, just before they went into camp, the\nkeen eyes of Laberge detected something among the branches of a pine a\nlittle distance to the right of their path which caused his face to glow\nwith excitement as he pointed eagerly to it, and exclaimed,--\n\n\"_Voila_! A lucifee--shoot him, quick!\"\n\nThey all turned in the direction he pointed out, and there, sure enough,\nwas a dark mass in the fork of the tree that, as they hastened toward it,\nresolved itself into a fierce-looking creature, full four times the size\nof an ordinary cat, which, instead of showing any fear at their approach,\nbristled up its back and uttered a deep, angry snarl that spoke volumes\nfor its courage.\n\n\"Now, then, Frank,\" said Johnston, \"take first shot, and see if you can\nfetch the brute down.\"\n\nTrembling with excitement, Frank threw up his rifle, did his best to\nsteady himself, took aim at the bewhiskered muzzle of the lynx, and\npulled the trigger. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by an\near-piercing shriek of mingled pain and rage, and the next instant the\nwounded creature launched forth into the air toward the hunters. Frank's\nnervousness, natural enough under the circumstances, had caused him to\nmiss his mark a little, and the bullet, instead of piercing the\n\"lucifee's\" brain, had only stung him sorely in the shoulder.\n\nBut quick as was its movements, Johnston was still quicker, and the\nmoment its feet touched the snow, ere it could gather itself for another\nspring, his rifle cracked and a bullet put an end to its career.\n\n\"Just as well you weren't by yourself, Frank; hey?\" said he, with a smile\nof satisfaction at the accuracy of his shot. \"This chap would have been\nan ugly customer at close quarters, and,\" turning the body over to find\nwhere the first bullet had hit, \"you see you hardly winged him.\"\n\nFrank blushed furiously and looked very much ashamed of himself for not\nbeing a better marksman; but the foreman cheered him up by assuring him\nthat he had really done very well in hitting the animal at all at that\ndistance.\n\n\"You only want a little practice, my boy,\" said he. \"You have plenty of\npluck; there's no mistake about that.\"\n\nThe lynx had a fine skin, which Laberge deftly removed, and it was given\nto Frank because he had fired the first shot at it, so that he would not\ngo back to Calumet without at least one hunting trophy on the strength of\nwhich he might do a little boasting.\n\nFurther and further into the forest the little party pierced their way,\nnot following any direct line, but making detours to right and left, in\norder that the country might be thoroughly inspected. As they neared the\nmountains the trees diminished in size and the streams shrank until, at\nthe end of their journey, the first were too small to pay for cutting,\nand the second too shallow to be any good for floating. With no little\ndifficulty they ascended a shoulder of the mountain range, in order to\nget a look over all the adjoining country, and then, Johnston having made\nup his mind as to the location of the best bunches of timber and the most\nconvenient site for the projected lumber camp, the object of the\nexpedition was accomplished, and they were at liberty to return to the\nshanty. But before they could do this they were destined to have an\nadventure that came perilously near taking away from them the youngest of\ntheir number.\n\nIt was the afternoon before they struck camp on the return journey. The\nforeman was sitting by the tent mending one of his snow-shoes, which had\nbeen damaged tramping through the bush, Booth was busy cutting firewood,\nand Laberge making preparations for the evening meal. Having nothing else\nto do, Frank picked up his rifle and sauntered off toward the mountain\nside, with no very clear idea as to anything more than to kill a little\ntime. Whistling cheerfully one of the many sacred melodies he knew and\nloved, he made his way over the snow, being soon lost to sight from the\ncamp, Johnston calling after him just before he disappeared,--\n\n\"Take care of yourself, my boy, and don't go too far.\"\n\nTo which Frank responded with a smiling, \"All right, sir.\"\n\nAt the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the camp he noticed a\nsort of rift in the mountain, where the rocks were bare and exposed, and\nat the end of this rift a dark aperture was visible, which at once\nattracted his attention.\n\nThe boy that could come across a cave without being filled with a burning\ncuriosity to take a peep in and, if possible, explore its interior, would\nhave to be a very dull fellow, and Frank certainly was not of that kind.\nThis dark aperture was no doubt the mouth of a cave of some sort, and he\ndetermined to inspect it. When he got within about fifteen yards, he\nnoticed what he had not seen before, that there was a well-defined track\nleading from the cave to the underbrush to the right, which had evidently\nbeen made by some large animal; and with somewhat of a start Frank\nimmediately thought of a bear.\n\nNow, of course, under the circumstances, there was but one thing for him\nto do if he wished to illustrate his common sense, and that was to hurry\nback to the tent as fast as possible for reinforcements. Ordinarily, he\nwould have done so at once, but this time he was still smarting a bit at\nhis poor marksmanship in the case of the \"lucifee,\" and the sight of the\ntrack in the snow suggested the idea of winning a reputation for himself\nby killing a bear without any assistance from the others. It was a rash\nand foolish notion; but then boys will be boys.\n\nMoving forward cautiously, he approached within ten yards of the cave and\nthen halted again, bringing his rifle forward so as to be ready to fire\nat a moment's notice. Bending down until his eyes were on a level with\nthe opening, he tried hard to peer into its depths; but the darkness was\ntoo deep to pierce, and he could not make out anything. Then he bethought\nhim of another expedient. Picking up a lump of snow, he pressed it into a\nball and threw it into the cave, at the same time shouting out, \"Hallo\nthere! Anybody inside?\" A proceeding that capped the climax of his\nrashness and produced quite as sensational a result as he could possibly\nhave desired, for the next moment a deep angry roar issued from the rocky\nretreat and a fiery pair of eyes gleamed out from its shadows. The\ncritical moment had come, and taking aim a little below the shining orbs,\nso as to make sure of hitting, Frank pulled the trigger. The report of\nthe rifle and the roar of the bear followed close upon one another,\nawaking the echoes of the adjoining heights. Then came a moment's\nsilence, broken the next instant by a cry of alarm from Frank; for the\nbear, instead of writhing in the agonies of death, was charging down upon\nhim with open mouth! Once more he had missed his mark and only wounded\nwhen he should have killed.\n\nThere was but one thing for him to do--to flee for his life; and uttering\na shout of \"Help! help!\" with all the strength of his lungs, he threw\ndown his rifle and started for the tent at the top of his speed.\n\nIt was well for him that the snow still lay deep upon the ground, and\nthat he was so expert in the use of his snow-shoes; for while the bear\nwallowed heavily in the drifts, he flew lightly over them, so that for a\ntime the furious creature lost ground rather than gained upon him. For a\nhundred yards the boy and bear raced through the forest, Frank continuing\nhis cries for help while he ran. Looking back for an instant, he saw that\nthe bear bad not yet drawn any nearer, and, terrified as he was, the\nthought flashed into his mind that if the brute followed him all the way\nto the camp he would soon be despatched by the men, and then he, Frank,\nwould be entitled to some credit for thus bringing him to execution.\n\nOn sped the two in their race for life, the boy skimming swiftly over the\nsoft snow, the bear ploughing his way madly through it, until more than\nhalf the distance to the camp had been accomplished. If Johnston had\nheard the report of the rifle and Frank's wild cries for help, he should\nbe coming into sight now, and with intense anxiety Frank looked ahead in\nhopes of seeing him emerge from the trees which clustered thickly in that\ndirection. But there was no sign of him yet; and shouting again as loudly\nas he could, the boy pressed strenuously forward. There was greater need\nfor exertion than ever, for he had reached a spot where the snow was not\nvery deep and had been firmly packed by the wind, so that the bear's\nbroad feet sank but little in it, and his rate of speed ominously\nincreased. So close was the fierce creature coming that Frank could hear\nhis paws pattering on the snow and his deep panting breath.\n\nOh why did not Johnston appear? Surely he must have heard Frank's cries.\nAh, there he was, just bursting through the trees into the opening, with\nLaberge and Booth close at his heels. Frank's heart bounded with joy, and\nhe was tempted to take a glance back to see how close the bear had got.\nIt was not a wise thing to do, and he came near paying dearly for doing\nit; for at the same instant his snowshoes caught in each other, and\nbefore he could recover himself he fell headlong in the snow with the\nbear right upon him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE GREAT SPRING DRIVE.\n\n\nAt the sight of Frank's fall the three men gave a simultaneous shout of\nalarm that caused the bear to halt for a moment in his fierce pursuit,\nand lifting his head to look angrily in the direction from which the\nsound had come. This action saved the helpless boy--striving to regain\nhis feet only a yard from death. The instant the creature's broad breast\nwas exposed, Johnston threw his rifle to his shoulder, and without\nwaiting to take aim, but ejaculating a fervent \"Help me, O God!\" pulled\nthe trigger. The report of the rifle rang out sharp and clear, the heavy\nbullet sped through the air straight to its mark, and with it embedded in\nhis heart the mighty animal, leaving untouched the boy at his feet, made\na mad bound across his body to reach the assailant who had given him his\ndeath wound.\n\nBut it was a vain though gallant attempt. Ere he was half-way to the\nforeman, he staggered and rolled over upon the snow, and before he could\nlift himself again the men were upon him, and Laberge, swinging his keen\naxe high in the air, brought it down with a mighty blow upon the brute's\nslanting forehead, letting daylight into his brain. Not even a bear could\nsurvive such a stroke, and without a struggle the creature yielded up its\nlife.\n\nInstantly the foreman sprang to Frank's side and lifted him upon his\nfeet.\n\n\"My dear boy!\" he cried, his face aflame with anxious love, as he clasped\nFrank passionately in his arms, \"are you hurt at all? Did he touch you?\"\n\nWhat between his previous exertions and the big man's mighty embrace,\npoor Frank had hardly enough breath left in him to reply, but he managed\nto gasp out,--\n\n\"Not a bit. He never touched me.\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure now?\" persisted Johnston, whose anxiety could not be\nat once relieved. \"O my lad! my heart stood still when you fell down\nright in front of the brute.\"\n\n\"I'm quite sure, Mr. Johnston,\" said Frank. \"See!\" And to prove his words\nhe gave a jump into the air,  threw up his arms, and shouted, \"Hip! hip!\nhurrah!\" with the full force of his lungs.\n\n\"God be praised!\" exclaimed the foreman. \"What a wonderful escape! Let\nus kneel down right here, and give Him thanks,\" he added, suiting his\naction to his words. Frank at once followed his example; so too did\nLaberge and Booth; and there in the midst of the forest-wilds this\nstrange praise-meeting was held over the body of the fierce creature from\nwhose murderous rage Frank had been so happily delivered.\n\nJohnston sent Laberge back to the tent for the toboggan, and before\ndarkness set in the bear was dragged thither, where the two men skilfully\nskinned him by the light of the camp fire, and stretched the pelt out to\ndry.\n\nThe quartette had a long talk over the whole affair after supper had been\ndisposed of. Frank was plied with questions which he took much pleasure\nin answering, for naturally enough he felt himself to be in some measure\nthe hero of the occasion. While he could not help admiring and cordially\npraising Frank's audacity, the foreman felt bound to reprove him for it,\nand to impress upon him the necessity of showing more caution in future,\nor he might get himself into a situation of danger from which there might\nbe no one at hand to deliver him. Frank, by this time thoroughly sobered\ndown, listened dutifully, and readily promised to be more careful if he\never came across bear tracks again.\n\n\"Anyway, my boy,\" said Johnston, \"you won't go home empty-handed; and\nwhen your mother sees those two skins, which are both pretty good ones,\nshe'll think more of you than she ever did before.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you know,\" said Frank, \"both skins oughtn't to be mine, for I\ndidn't kill either of the animals.\"\n\n\"Neither you did, Frank,\" replied Johnston, \"but you came mighty near\nkilling the one, and the other came mighty near killing you; so I think\nit's only fair you should have both.--Don't you think so, mates?\" turning\nto the men.\n\n\"Ah, _oui_,\" exclaimed Laberge, with a vigorous nod of his head.\n\n\"Of course,\" added Booth, no less emphatically; and so the matter was\nsettled very much to Frank's satisfaction.\n\nThe next day the tent was packed and the little party set out for the\nshanty, which was reached in good time without anything eventful\noccurring on the way. They found the work of getting the logs down upon\nthe ice well nigh completed, and the foreman's return giving an impetus\nto the men's exertions, it was finished in a few days more, and then\nthere was nothing to do but to await the breaking up of the ice.\n\nThey were not kept long in expectancy. The sun was now in full vigour;\nbefore his burning rays the snow and ice fled in utter rout; and the\nfrost king, confessing defeat, withdrew his grasp from the Kippewa,\nwhich, as if rejoicing in its release, went rippling and bounding merrily\non toward the great river beyond, bearing upon its bosom the many\nthousand logs which represented the hard labour of Camp Kippewa during\nthe long cold winter months that were now past and gone. The most arduous\nand exciting phase of the lumberman's life had begun, the great spring\ndrive, as they call it, and for weeks to come he would be engaged playing\nthe part of shepherd after a strange fashion, with huge, clumsy, unruly\nlogs for his flock, and the rushing river for the highway along which\nthey should be driven.\n\nThe shantymen were divided into two parties, one section taking the teams\nand camp-belongings back to the depot, the other and much larger section\nfollowing the logs in their journey to the mills. Johnston put himself at\nthe head of the latter, and Frank, of course, accompanied him, for the\nforeman was no less anxious to have him than the boy was to go. The bonds\nof affection that bound the two were growing stronger every day they were\ntogether. Frank regarded Johnston as the preserver of his life, and\nJohnston, on his part, looked upon Frank as having been in God's hands\nthe means of bringing light and joy to his soul. It might be said,\nwithout exaggeration, that either of them would risk his life in the\nother's behalf with the utmost willingness.\n\nThe journey down the river had to be done in light marching order. Not\nmuch baggage could be carried, so as not to burden too heavily the three\nor four \"_bonnes_,\" as they call the long, light, flat-bottomed boats\npeculiar to lumbermen, which had been all winter awaiting the time when\ntheir services would be required. The shore work being beyond his\nstrength, Frank was given a place in one of the _bonnes_ along with\nBaptiste, Laberge, and part of the commissariat, and it was their duty to\nprecede the main body of the men, and have their dinner and supper ready\nfor them when they came up. In this way Frank would get a perfect view of\nthe whole business of river driving, and he was in high feather as they\nmade a start on a beautiful morning in early May, with the sun shining\nbrightly, the air soft and balmy, and the river reflecting the blue of\nthe unclouded heavens.\n\n\"Now take good care of Baptiste and the grub,\" said Johnston, with a\nsmile, as he pushed the boat in which Frank was sitting off into the\nstream. \"If you let anything happen to them, Frank, I don't know what\nwe'll do to you.\"\n\n\"I'll do my best, sir,\" replied Frank, smiling back. \"The boat won't\nupset if I can help it, and as Baptiste can't swim, he'll do his best to\nbe careful too; won't you, Baptiste?\"\n\n\"_Vraiment, mon cher_,\" cried Baptiste. \"If we upset--poor Baptiste! zat\nwill be the last of him.\" And he shrugged his fat shoulders and made a\nserio-comic grimace that set everybody laughing.\n\nIf the Kippewa, through all its course, had been as deep and free from\nobstructions as it was opposite the lumber camp, the river drivers\nwould have had an easy time of it getting their wooden flock to market.\nBut none of the rivers in this part of the country go quietly on their\nway from source to outlet. Falls and rapids are of frequent occurrence,\nand it is these which add difficulty and danger to the lumberman's\nwork. Carrying pike-poles and cant-hooks, the former being simply long\ntough ash poles with a sharp spike on the business end, and the latter\nshorter stouter poles, something like the handle of a shovel, with a\ncurious curved iron attachment that took a firm grip of a log and enabled\nthe worker to roll its lazy bulk over and over in the direction he\ndesired--with these weapons taking the place of the axe and saw, the men\nset off on their journey down the river side, two of the boats going\nahead, and two bringing up the rear.\n\nFrank felt in great spirits. He was thoroughly expert in the management\nof a _bonne_, and the voyage down the river in this lovely spring weather\ncould be only continued enjoyment, especially as beyond steering the boat\nhe had nothing to do, and it would be practically one long holiday. There\nwere nearly twenty thousand logs to be guided, coaxed, rolled, and shoved\nfor one hundred miles or more through sullen pools, sleeping reaches,\nturbulent rapids, and roaring falls, where, as if they were living\nthings, they would seem to exhaust every possible means of delay. The way\nin which they would stick at some critical point and pile one upon\nanother, until the whole river was blocked, defies description; and one\nseeing the spectacle for the first time might well be pardoned if he were\nto be positive that there could be no way of bringing order out of so\nhopeless a confusion, and releasing the tangled obstructed mass.\n\nFor the first few days matters went very smoothly, the river being\ndeep and swift, and the logs giving little trouble. Of course, numbers of\nthem were continually stranding on the banks, but the watchful drivers\nsoon spied them out, and with a push of the pike-pole, or drag of the\ncant-hook, sent them floating off again on their journey. At mid-day all\nthe men would gather about Baptiste's kettles and dispose of a hearty\ndinner, and then again at night they would leave the logs to look after\nthemselves while they ate their supper and talked, and then lay down to\nrest their weary bodies. But this condition of things was too good to\nlast. In due time the difficulties began to show themselves, and then\nFrank saw the most exciting and dangerous phase of a lumberman's life--a\npart of it with which when he grew older he must himself become familiar\nif he would be master of the whole business, as it was his ambition to\nbe.\n\nThe great army of logs, forging onward slowly or swiftly, according to\nthe force of the current, would come to a point where the stream narrowed\nand jagged rocks thrust their unwelcome heads above the surface. The\nvanguard of the army, perhaps, passing either to right or left of the\nrocks, would go on its way unchecked. But when the main body came up, and\nthe whole stream was full of drifting logs, some clumsy tree trunk going\ndown broadside first would bring up short against the rock. As quickly as\na crowd will gather in a city street, the other logs would cluster about\nthe one that obstructed their passage. There would be no stopping the\non-rush. In less time than it takes to describe it, a hundred logs would\nbe jostling one another in the current; and every minute the confusion\nwould increase, until ere long the disordered mass would stretch from\nshore to shore, the whole stream would be blocked up, and the event most\ndreaded by the river driver would have taken place, to wit, a log jam.\n\nThe worst place that Johnston had to encounter in getting his drive of\nlogs to the river was at the Black Rapids, and never will Frank forget\nthe thrilling excitement of that experience. These rapids were the terror\nof the Kippewa lumbermen. They were situated in the swiftest part of the\nriver, and if Nature had in cold blood tried her utmost to give the\ndespoilers of her forest a hard nut to crack she could scarcely have\nsucceeded better. The boiling current was divided into two portions by a\njagged spur of rock that thrust itself above the surging waters, and so\nsure as a log came broadside against this projection it was caught and\nheld in a firm embrace.\n\nJohnston thoroughly understood this, and had taken every care to\nprevent a jam occurring; and if it had been possible for him to do what\nwas in his mind--namely, to land upon the troublesome rock, and with his\npike-pole push back again into the current every log that threatened to\nstick--the whole drive would have slipped safely by. He did make a\ngallant attempt to carry this out, putting four of the best oarsmen into\nFrank's boat, and trying again and again to force his way through the\nfierce current to the rock, while Frank watched him with breathless\ninterest from the bank. But, strain and tug as the oarsmen might, the\neddying, whirling stream was too strong for them, and swept them past the\nrock again and again, until at length the foreman had to give up\nhis design as impracticable.\n\nIt was exciting work, and Frank longed very much to be in the boat; but\nJohnston, indulgent as he was toward his favourite, refused him this\ntime.\n\n\"No, no, Frank; I couldn't think of it,\" he said decidedly. \"It's too\nrisky a business. The _bonne_ might be smashed any time, and if it did\nwe'd run a poor chance of getting out of these rapids. More than one good\nman has gone to his death here.\"\n\n\"Have there been men killed in these rapids?\" Frank asked, with a look of\nprofound concern at his big friend, who was taking such risks. \"The poor\nfellows! What a dreadful death! They must have been dashed against the\nrocks. Surely you won't try it again, will you?\" For it was dinner-time,\nand all hands were taking a welcome rest before resuming the toils of the\nday.\n\nJohnston thoroughly understood and appreciated the boy's anxiety in his\nbehalf, and there was a look of wonderful tenderness in his eyes as he\nanswered him:--\n\n\"I must try it once more, Frank; for if I can only get out to that rock\nthere'll be no jam this day. But don't you worry. I've taken bigger risks\nand come out all right.\"\n\nSo he made one more attempt, while Frank watched every movement of the\nboat, praying earnestly for its preservation. Again he failed, and the\n_bonne_ returned to the bank unharmed. But hardly had the weary men\nthrown themselves down for a brief spell of rest than what they all so\ndreaded happened. One of the logs, getting into a cross eddy, rolled\nbroadside against the rock. It was caught and held fast. Another and\nanother charged against it and stayed there. The main body of the drive\nwas now passing down, and every moment the jam increased in size. Soon it\nwould fill the whole stream. Yet the lumbermen were powerless to prevent\nits growth. They could do nothing until it had so checked the current\nthat it would be possible to make a way over to its centre.\n\nSo soon as this took place, Johnston, accompanied by three of his best\nmen, armed with axes and cant-hooks, leaping from log to log with the\nsure agility only lumbermen could show, succeeded in reaching the heart\nof the jam, and at once proceeded to attack it with tremendous energy.\nOne log after another was detached from the disordered mass and sent\nwhirling off down stream, until at the end of an hour's arduous exertion,\nthe key-piece--that is, the log that had caused all the trouble--was\nfound.\n\n\"Now, my boys,\" said Johnston to his men, \"get ashore as quick as you\ncan. I'll stay and cut out the key-piece.\"\n\nThe men demurred for a moment. They were reluctant to leave their chief\nalone in a position of such extreme peril. But he commanded them to go.\n\n\"There's only one man wanted,\" he said; \"and I'll do it myself. It's no\nuse you risking your lives too.\"\n\nSo the men obeyed, and returned to the bank to join the group watching\nJohnston's movements with intense anxiety. They all knew as well as he\ndid the exceeding peril of his position, and not one of them would\nbreathe freely until he had accomplished his task, and found his way\nsafely back to the shore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nHOME AGAIN.\n\n\nFor so large a man the foreman showed an agility that was really\nwonderful, as he leaped from log to log with the swiftness and sureness\nof a chamois. He had been lumbering all his life, and there was nothing\nthat fell to the lumberman's experience with which he was not perfectly\nfamiliar. Yet it is doubtful if he ever had a more difficult or dangerous\ntask than that before him now. The \"key-piece\" of the jam was fully\nexposed, and once it was cut in two it would no longer hold the\naccumulation of logs together. They would be released from their bondage,\nand springing forward with the full force of the pent-up current, would\nrush madly down stream, carrying everything before them.\n\nBut what would Johnston do in the midst of this tumult? A few more\nmoments would tell; for his axe was dealing tremendous strokes, before\nwhich the key-piece, stout though it was, must soon yield. Ah, it is\nalmost severed. The foreman pauses for an instant and glances keenly\naround, evidently in order to see what will be his best course of action\nwhen the jam breaks. Frank, in an agony of apprehension and anxiety, has\nsunk to his knees, his lips moving in earnest prayer, while his eyes are\nfixed on his beloved friend. Johnston's quick glance falls upon him, and,\ncatching the significance of his attitude, his face is irradiated with a\nheavenly light of love as lie calls out across the boiling current,--\n\n\"God bless you, Frank! Keep praying.\"\n\nThen he returns to his work. The keen axe flashes through the air in\nstroke after stroke. At length there comes a sound that cannot be\nmistaken. The foreman throws aside his axe and prepares to jump for\nlife; and, like one man, the breathless onlookers shout together as the\nkey-piece rends in two, and the huge jam, suddenly released, bursts away\nfrom the rock and charges tumultuously down the river.\n\nIf ever man needed the power of prompt decision, it was the foreman then.\nTo the men on shore there seemed no possible way of escape from the\navalanche of logs; and Frank shut his eyes lest he should have to witness\na dreadful tragedy. A cry from the men caused him to open them again\nquickly, and when he looked at the rock it was untenanted--Johnston had\ndisappeared! Speechless with dread, he turned to the man nearest him, his\nblanched countenance expressing the inquiry he could not utter.\n\n\"He's there,\" cried the man, pointing to the whirl of water behind the\nbody of logs. \"He dived.\"\n\nAnd so it was. Recognizing that to remain in the way of the jam was to\ncourt certain death, the foreman chose the desperate alternative of\ndiving beneath the logs, and allowing them to pass over him before he\nrose to the surface. Great was the relief of Frank and the others when,\namid the foaming water, Johnston's head appeared, and he struck out to\nkeep himself afloat. But it was evident that he had little strength left,\nand was quite unable to contend with the mighty current. Good swimmer as\nhe was, the danger of drowning threatened him.\n\nFrank's quick eyes noticed this, and like a flash the fearless boy, not\nstopping to call any of the others to his aid, bounded down the bank to\nwhere the _bonne_ lay upon the shore, shoved her off into deep water,\nspringing in over the bow as she slipped away, and in another moment was\nwhirling down the river, crying out at the top of his voice,--\n\n\"I'm coming! I'll save you! Keep up!\"\n\nHis eager shouts reached Johnston's ears, and the sight of the boat,\npitching and tossing as the current swept it toward him, inspired him to\nrenewed exertion. He struggled to get in the way of the boat, and\nsucceeded so well that Frank, leaning over the side as far as he dared,\nwas able to seize his outstretched hand and hold it until he could grasp\nthe gunwale himself with a grip that no current could loosen. A glad\nshout of relief went up from the men at sight of this, and Frank, having\nmade sure that the foreman was now out of danger, seized the oars and\nbegan to ply them vigorously with the purpose of beaching the _bonne_ at\nthe first opportunity. They had to go some distance before this could be\ndone, but Johnston held on firmly, and presently a projecting point was\nreached, against which Frank steered the boat; and the moment she was\naground, he hastened to the stern and helped the foreman ashore, the\nlatter having just strength enough left to drag himself out of the water\nand fall in a limp, dripping heap upon the ground.\n\n\"God bless you, Frank dear,\" he said, as soon as he recovered his breath.\n\"You've saved my life again. I never could have got ashore if you hadn't\ncome after me. One of the logs must have hit me on the head when I was\ndiving, for I felt so faint and dizzy when I came up that I thought it\nwas all over with me. But, thank God, I'm a live man still; and I'm sure\nit's not for nothing that I've been spared.\"\n\nThe men all thought it a plucky act on Frank's part to go off alone in\nthe boat to the foreman's rescue, and showered unstinted praise upon him;\nall of which he took very quietly, for, indeed, he felt quite\nsufficiently rewarded in that his venture was crowned with success. The\nexciting incident of course threw everybody out in their work, and when\nthey returned to it they found that the logs had taken advantage of their\nbeing left uncared for to play all sorts of queer pranks and run\nthemselves aground in every conceivable fashion.\n\nBut the river drivers did not mind this very much. The hated Black Rapids\nwere passed, and the rest of the Kippewa was comparatively smooth\nsailing. So, with song and joke, they toiled away until all their charges\nwere afloat again and gliding steadily onward toward their goal.\nThenceforward they had little interruption in their course; and Frank\nfound the life wonderfully pleasant, drifting idly all day long in the\n_bonne_, and camping at night beside the river, the weather being bright,\nand warm, and delightful all the time.\n\nSo soon as the Kippewa rolled its burden of forest spoils out upon the\nbroad bosom of the Ottawa--the Grand River, as those who live beside its\nbatiks love to call it--the work of the river drivers was over. The logs\nthat had caused them so much trouble were now handed over to the care of\na company which gathered them up into \"tows,\" and with powerful steamers\ndragged them down the river until the sorting grounds were reached, where\nthey were turned into the \"booms\" to await their time for execution--in\nother words, their sawing up.\n\nFrank felt really sorry when the driving was over. He loved the water,\nand would have been glad to spend the whole summer upon it. He was\ntelling Johnston this as they were talking together on the evening of the\nlast day upon the Kippewa. Johnston had been saying to him how glad he\nmust be that the work was all over, and that they now could go over to\nthe nearest village and take the stage for home. But Frank did not\nentirely agree with him.\n\n\"I'm not anxious to go home by stage,\" said he. \"I'd a good deal rather\nstick to the river. I think it's just splendid, so long as the weather's\nfine.\"\n\n\"Why, what a water-dog you are, Frank!\" said the foreman, laughing. \"One\nwould think you'd have had enough of the water by this time.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" said Frank, returning the smile. \"The woods in winter,\nand the water in summer--that's what I enjoy.\"\n\n\"Well, but aren't you in a hurry to get home and see your mother again?\"\nqueried Johnston.\n\n\"Of course I am,\" answered Frank. \"But, you see, a day or two won't make\nmuch difference, for she doesn't know just when to look for me; and I've\nnever been on this part of the Ottawa, and want to see it ever so much.\"\n\n\"Well--let me see,\" reflected Johnston. \"How can we manage it? You'd soon\nget sick of the steamers. They're mortal slow and very dirty. Besides,\nthey don't encourage passengers, or they'd have too many of them. But\nhold on!\" he exclaimed, his face lighting up with a new idea. \"I've got\nit. How would you like to finish the rest of the trip home on a square\ntimber raft? There'll be one passing any day, and I know 'most all the\nmen in the business, so there'll be no difficulty about getting a\npassage.\"\n\n\"The very idea!\" cried Frank, jumping up and bringing his hand down upon\nhis thigh with a resounding slap. \"Nothing would please me better. Oh,\nwhat fun it will be shooting the slides!\" And he danced about in delight\nat the prospect.\n\n\"All right then, my lad,\" said Johnston, smiling at the boy's exuberance.\n\"We'll just wait here until a raft comes along, and then we'll board her\nand ask the fellows to let us go down with them. They won't refuse.\"\n\nThey had not long to wait, for the very next day a huge raft hove in\nsight--a real floating island of mighty timbers--and on going out to it\nin the _bonne_, Johnston was glad to find that the foreman in charge was\nan old friend who would be heartily pleased at having his company for the\nrest of the voyage. So he and Frank brought their scanty baggage on\nboard, and joined themselves to the crew of men that, with the aid of a\ntowing steamer, were navigating this very strange kind of craft down the\nriver.\n\nThis was an altogether novel experience for Frank, and he found it much\nto his liking. The raft was an immense one.\n\n\"As fine a lot of square timber as I ever took down,\" said its captain\nproudly. \"It's worth five thousand pounds if it's worth a penny.\"\n\nFive thousand pounds! Frank's eyes opened wide at the mention of this\nvast sum, and he wondered to himself if he should ever be the owner of\nsuch a valuable piece of property. Although he had begun as a chore-boy,\nhis ambition was by no means limited to his becoming in due time a\nforeman like Johnston, or even an overseer like Alec Stewart. He allowed\nhis imagination to carry him forward to a day of still greater things,\nwhen he should be his own master, and have foremen and overseers under\nhim. This slow sailing down the river was very favourable to day\ndreaming, and Frank could indulge himself to his heart's content during\nthe long lovely spring days. There were more than twoscore men upon the\nraft, the majority of them habitants and half-breeds, and they were as\nfull of songs as robins; especially in the evening after supper, when\nthey would gather about the great fire always burning on its clay bed in\nthe centre of the raft, and with solo and chorus awake the echoes of the\nplacid river.\n\nIn common with the rivers which pour into it, the Ottawa is broken by\nmany falls and rapids, and to have attempted to run the huge raft over\none of these would have insured its complete destruction. But this\ndifficulty is duly provided for. At one side of the fall a \"slide\" is\nbuilt--that is, a contrivance something like a canal, with sides and\nbottom of heavy timber, and having a steep <DW72> down which the water\nrushes in frantic haste to the level below. Now the raft is not put\ntogether in one piece, but is made up of a number of \"cribs\"--a crib\nbeing a small raft containing fifteen to twenty timbers, and being about\ntwenty-four feet wide by thirty feet in length. At the head of the slide\nthe big raft is separated into the cribs, and these cribs make the\ndescent one at a time, each having three or four men on board.\n\nShooting the slides, as it is called, is a most delightful amusement to\npeople whose nerves don't bother them. Frank had heard so much about it\nthat he was looking forward to it from the time he boarded the raft, and\nnow at Des Joachim Falls he was to have the realization. He went down in\none of the first cribs, and this is the way he described the experience\nto his mother:--\n\n\"But, mother, the best fun of the whole thing is shooting the slides. I\njust wish there was a slide near Calumet, so that I could take you down\nand let you see how splendid it is. Why, it's just like--let me see--I've\ngot it! It's just like tobogganing on water. You jump on board the crib\nat the mouth of the slide, you know, and it moves along very slowly at\nfirst, until it gets to the edge of the first slant; then it takes a\nsudden start, and away it goes shooting down like greased lightning,\nmaking the water fly up all around you, just like the snow does when\nyou're tobogganing. Oh, but if it isn't grand! The timbers of the crib\nrub against the bottom of the slide, and groan and creak as if it hurt\nthem. And then, besides coming in over the bow, the water spurts up\nbetween the timbers, so that you have to look spry or you're bound to get\nsoaking wet. I got drenched nearly every time; but that didn't matter,\nfor the sun soon made me dry again, and it was too good fun to mind a\nlittle wetting.\"\n\nFrank felt quite sorry when the last of the slides was passed, and wished\nthere were twice as many on the route of the raft. But presently he had\nsomething else to occupy his thoughts, for each day brought him nearer to\nCalumet, and soon his journeyings by land and water would be ended, and\nhe would be at home again to make his mother's heart glad.\n\nIt was the perfection of a spring day when the raft, moving in its\nleisurely fashion--for was not the whole summer before it?--reached\nCalumet, and Mrs. Kingston, sitting alone in her cottage, and wondering\nwhen her boy would make his appearance, was surprised by an unceremonious\nopening of the front door, a quick step in the hall, and a sudden\nenfolding by two stout arms, while a voice that she had not heard for\nmonths shouted in joyous accents,--\n\n\"Here I am, mother darling, safe and sound, right side up with care, and\noh, so glad to be at home again!\"\n\nMrs. Kingston returned the fond embrace with interest, and then held\nFrank off at arms-length to see how much he had changed during his six\nmonths' absence. She found him both taller and stouter, and with his face\nwell browned by the exposure to the bright spring sunshine.\n\n\"You went away a boy, and you've come back almost a man, Frank,\" she\nsaid, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. \"But you're my own boy the\nsame as ever; aren't you, darling?\"\n\nIt was many a day before Frank reached the end of his story of life at\nthe lumber camp, for Mrs. Kingston never wearied of hearing all about it.\nWhen she learned of his different escapes from danger, the inclination of\nher heart was to beseech him to be content with one winter in the woods,\nand to take up some other occupation. But she wisely said nothing, for\nthere could be no doubt as to the direction in which Frank's heart\ninclined, and she determined not to interfere.\n\nWhen in the following autumn Frank went back to the forest, he was again\nunder Johnston's command, but not as chore-boy. He was appointed clerk\nand checker, with liberty to do as much chopping or other work as he\npleased. Whatever his duty was he did it with all his might, doing it\nheartily as to the Lord and not unto men, so that he found increasing\nfavour in his employer's eyes, rising steadily higher and higher until,\nwhile still a young man, he was admitted into partnership, and had the\nsweet satisfaction of realizing the day dreams of that first trip down\nthe Ottawa on a timber raft.\n\nYet he never forgot what he had learned when chore-boy of Camp Kippewa,\nand out of that experience grew a practical philanthropic interest in the\nwell-being and advancement of his employees, that made him the most\npopular and respected \"lumber-king\" on the river.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Young Woodsman, by J. Macdonald Oxley\n\n*** ","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}